


Stately Homes of England

by winghead



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agatha Christie-Style, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Awkward Flirting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Historical, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, If Y'all Don't Suspect All The Bad Guys At Once I Have Done My Job Wrong, Inspector Rogers, M/M, Manor Owner Tony, Meet-Cute, Murder Mystery, Or Meet-Ugly?, Secrets, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, suspense?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28411128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winghead/pseuds/winghead
Summary: There was a body in the drawing room.Tony did not know how it had got there, nor when this had happened; however, he was quite sure that telling the detectives he was glad to see a former lover of his kick the bucket would be incriminatingly callous. But, provoked by the righteous, blue-eyed judgement of Inspector Rogers for a crime he did not commit, naturally that'sexactlywhat he did.It was hate at first sight.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

Here you see-the four of us,

And there are so many more of us

Eldest sons that must succeed.

The Stately Homes of England,

How beautiful they stand,

To prove the upper classes

Have still the upper hand;

Though the fact that they have to be rebuilt

And frequently mortgaged to the hilt

Certainly damps the fun

Of the eldest son—

But still we won't be beaten,

We'll stand

By the Stately Homes of England

**“Stately Homes of England”**

**Noel Coward, 1938**

* * *

Tony streaked down the country lane.

The engine of the scarlet Cadillac under him roared as he willed it to go past 60. He had passed Andover, then Amesbury, and after them had started a chain of small farming towns split in two by the very road Tony followed westwards. Old Ditton was one of the smallest of the chain, a good hundred miles from London.

It had rained at dawn before the skies cleared, leaving behind a lingering chill and several puddles. The spray of water sheared up from under him up to the golden mascot at the front of the bonnet trim as, with a tug of the steering wheel, the car veered sharply to left, following a canopy of large oaks up a drive. Here, he brought the car to a screeching halt that caused it to slide several feet on the loose gravel. He hit reverse and backed until he was level with the arches of the entry.

As he gathered his luggage, he spotted over the car door a gardener in the middle of the oval, central flowerbed, trimming a stone vase that looked like a bird bath. The man could be seen reprovingly clicking his shears, shaking his head, when Tony threw open the front door, bags in hand.

“Jarvis, you up?” Tony shouted into the seemingly empty house at large, eyes sun-dazzled. “The prodigal son has returned!”

He heard a door close and a moment later the formal-clothed form of his butler had climbed down the blue-carpeted staircase into the hall, bearing a duster and a reproving expression.

“I’m glad to see, sir, that you’re timely as always,” he said.

Tony grinned. “I thought I surprised you back there.”

“You did, sir. However, I took the liberty of readying your room a day late.”

He set the duster on a console table and took Tony’s bag.

“You’re in good shape,” Tony complimented conversationally as they climbed upstairs. “You still doing those half-day recreations once a week?”

“It _is_ beneficial.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, like those hikes they talk about in the paper?”

“Always a pleasure to have you watch over my health.”

They had reached the landing now, where the corridor spread long and narrow into two directions, both lined with several bedrooms and studies. Tony’s room was third on the right, from which opened a view to the oval driveway.

Tony had just shuffled out of his jacket, chucking it on the bed, when a voice spoke.

“Is that all, Mr. Stark?”

Tony startled; he had not realized Jarvis was still there; and although he should have known it would be coming, he had not expected the jump from Master Anthony to _Mister_.

“Seriously? Still hovering? I feel like I’m going to spontaneously wreck the house just by breathing with you watching over me like that. What, you’re not allowed to leave without my say so?”

“I can dismiss myself, sir. Just wondering whether you need help adjusting…”

“Oh, I see. What I need,” said Tony, gesturing about the room, “is to get her and I reacquainted. Full cavity search. Top to bottom.”

“Very fine, sir,” said Jarvis, sounding prim, and bowed out.

Tony looked up to the coffered ceiling, the apricot-coloured pressed glass shade of the chandelier. Less than a week ago he had been standing in this exact spot of his childhood bedroom, waiting for the guests of the double-wake to fill the hall. It seemed like a lifetime away. What was he to do now? He stood, immobilized, by the door and he thought of his parents’ death, of the daunting, demanding legacy they had left behind … this house … Stark Industries…

The loss that had possessed him since the funeral felt different now. The detachment of death seemed to have nestled in his brain, like a diseased thing, infecting his memories of a father he had idolized, enabling him to see past the rosy lenses into the actions of a distant, emotionally unskilled man. Had spending time with his son truly been so burdensome? Had he, like Tony, found himself incapable of stomaching mindless questions? Could he have turned his back on a child because it was more convenient to him than learning patience?

Tony thought of the house, of rooms he had been carried away from by a nurse; he thought of mysterious objects never explained to him, and the scolding he had got when he’d tried to figure them out himself, and resentment swelled in his chest. Why had Howard done it? Had he ever wished for a child in the first place? Or had Tony been nothing more than a testimony of his supreme intellect, a document to bring out whenever its contents suited him best?

Tony could no longer stay still with nothing but bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something to do, for distraction, he walked around his untouched bag, slipping out of the room and strode along the panelled passage outside.

On his right and left, open doors created pools of daylight onto the carpet he was walking on. Tony remembered the duster in Jarvis’ hand. He must be airing out the bedrooms. Tony’s gaze wandered to the door, behind of which his parents had slept, but it was closed, showing nothing but a stretch of dark wood.

Tony doubled back to the stairs and down to the hall, where there were only two visible, far-apart doors. The one on the left belong to the dining room, the other to the drawing room. However, Tony was privy to one more: hidden midst the panels of the stair’ flank was a door that opened to the forbidden land of Howard. Tony had never entered his father’s workshop here. He pushed open the door, fingers fumbling for a switch.

The room below seemed to be a combination of cellar and garage, and as such, was bare-walled and windowless. Though very cluttered and thoroughly utilized, the room somewhat resembled their family mausoleum on the unforgettable occasion that his parents’ bodies had been laid to rest inside sealed stone. There was a stack of rotors on a plugboard, and an engine Tony deduced to belong to his father’s Mercedes, due to the unique shape of the pimped-up exhaust manifold. Wrapped bunches of cables long enough to make the way to London and back, all bobbing in the breeze he had brought in with him, hung from hooks screwed deep into the cement wall.

For a place he had been firmly denied entrance to, it was boring: the thing that best caught his attention was a perforated sheet Tony could not guess the use for.

“What the hell were you making,” asked Tony from the room at large.

“Excuse me,” said Jarvis, who had followed the light downstairs, and who strode in to straighten the line of cables Tony had disrupted. “There’s a man outside, sir.”

Tony sighed. “Is he worth my time?”

“You may have once thought so, sir. It’s Mr. Stone Junior. He’s been flicking pebbles at your window.”

“Oh, give me a break,” he moaned.

And sure enough, a figure had appeared in the yard, and as Tony walked briskly towards him Tiberius Stone lifted his slow gaze from where he was leaning against Tony’s Cadillac, which was yet to cool from the ride. He flicked ash off his cigarette, while Tony eyed unhappily the shoe braced on the red hub cap.

“Hello, Ty. Wasted, are we?”

Tiberius gave a rather mirthless chuckle and choked slightly on his next drag. “Takes one to know one, sweetheart.”

“I’ve left that life behind,” replied Tony calmly.

“Feeling brave, even though there’s no daddy to scare me off?”

“Yep. I’m the master of the house now. Focus up.”

Silence fell between the two of them as they looked up at the house. There was no sign of movement; the windows stared back, gleaming in the reflected daylight.

“We had nice times together, didn’t we, Anthony?”

Tony looked back at Tiberius in surprise. “No, we didn’t.”

Tiberius coughed painfully. “No, _you_ didn’t.”

“You shouldn’t smoke so much,” Tony found himself saying.

“Not against the law, is it?” said Tiberius, who was looking at Tony over his cigarette rather short-sightedly in his drunkenness.

“Trespassing is,” said Tony, matter of fact. “Get off my land.”

“Make me,” Tiberius said and blew smoke in Tony’s face.

Tony did not answer straight away. Nevertheless, he felt the air between them thicken: Tony’s refusal to play into Tiberius’ goading was a refusal to allow him to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Tony could tell Tiberius took it as such.

“You know what, I will,” said Tony. “Remember who you’re talking to.” He turned to face the garage. “Happy!”

He set off at a brisk pace and heard a shuffle behind him as Tiberius finally extracted himself from the car; Tony’s strides had already brought him to the garage door when something thumped behind him. Turning to look, he saw Tiberius laboriously straightening from a tumble, at the same time as a tall, bulky kind of man appeared from inside, and his naturally frowning features morphed into even more severe lines at the sight of the man brushing gravel off his knees.

“Oh, I know this face and I don’t like it,” he said.

Tiberius had drawn up to his full, not insignificant height. “’Tis how you treat your superior, _chauffer?”_

Happy gave a look, which Tony answered with a tiny twitch of the head towards the driveway and its oaks.

Happy looked satisfied; Tiberius let his cigarette drop and snuffed it onto the ground at Tony’s feet, but he had barely straightened when he was seized by the front of his wool lapels by Happy and forced towards the garage.

“I’ve got it, boss,” he dismissed breathlessly.

Tony looked down at the cigarette and kicked it away with the toe of his shoe; a Royce already came squealing out of the open garage as Tony retreated back to the house. As he stepped under the Edwardian arch, he glanced back at the speeding car, and stayed quite still until he couldn’t see a sign of even the seat shroud, then he closed the door behind him.

How many ghosts of the past would he run into during his stay in England, he thought on his way to peruse the left wing. And if he would … how many of them would turn out to be malevolent, as the memories responsible hardy encouraged the makings of a good one?

At his father’s study, at the opening of the left wing, Tony crossed to the window on the far side of the room. He could see a roof, a thin, glittering ribbon of rooftop windows just above the canopy. He was high up; a bird flew past the window to the eaves above him as he stared in the direction of the limestone mausoleum, invisible behind an ancient chestnut. His father laid over there. Since the funeral they had been closer to each other than they had ever been during his childhood, but his father could not have known his son was gazing towards him now, thinking of him. He supposed this was his father’s way of securing himself the standing last word; either the constant sight of it would chase him out in less than three months, or it could, after years and years of closure, bring him comfort.

He turned away from the window and his gaze fell upon another sorry sight, hung on the wall: a decade-old portrait of his father wearing a smart pin-striped suit. An ornate cross-shaped medal for special services in the Great War was pinned to his lapel.

“Fetching,” Tony said. “Should have buried you with that.”

Either by the former occupant or by Jarvis, somebody had filed everything carefully into the bookshelves, desk drawers and leather-bound files. Looking at it all, Tony hardly knew where to begin: every sheaf of official paper seemed to harangue him about what was either around the corner or way, way down … he looked at the bell and fought the urge to ring it…

He wished he had asked more questions while Howard had been alive. There were so many days wasted, hours he could have used to find out more about how to be the man Howard was…

In the end, Tony fetched a drink. The scotch seared Tony’s throat: it appeared to burn feeling back into his body, dispelling the sense of numbness and unreality, firing him with something that felt like courage.

“Anthony Stark, master of the house,” he hummed to himself, tasting the words. “Well … I’ve got one part covered all right,” he said, and downed the glass.

***

Tony rubbed his forehead; there was a tremble to his fingers that was getting harder to ignore, no matter how tightly he gripped the tools. Math was difficult. Bolts eluded him. He decided, after a few attempts, that the Mercedes did not require its engine.

He stretched out his hands in front of him and stared at them. They looked jaundiced and ghostly under the artificial light of his father’s workshop, and they bore several scars that caught light at certain angles. He twisted around and tried to spy his reflection upon a wrench — but the distorted image served to only make his headache worse; it felt as though his brain was being squeezed by a vice. He had just rounded the table, thinking the new perspective would help, when he heard the grandfather clock in the hall chime: several rings too many to imply the hour was a respectable time to go to sleep at, and several times too few to legitimate pretending he had slept.

“I’m bored,” he sighed, forehead laid on the table, “the bed’s so damp frogs spawn between the linen, there’s no pretty things to look at … and I came here voluntarily,”

It was then that he became aware of his dry throat and remembered some brandy had been left in the decanter in the study. He hesitated; Jarvis would cuff his ears for it … but he was old … and Tony was not sixteen anymore. Surely … surely, he would not be awakened by Tony walking in his own house?

Then, warily, he set off.

Silence pressed upon his ears as he tiptoed through the dark, echoing hall. He could only see ten feet ahead of him, so that as he reached the foot of the staircase its steps appeared to emerge suddenly out of the oncoming darkness: several feet of polished, smooth balustrade, console tables of deep mahogany decorated with hazardously thin-glassed vases of daisies. He walked ahead and ahead, out towards the left wing, his eyes wide, staring through the shadows around him to the blackness beyond, where a door would be.

The old floor under him creaked and cracked. Once or twice he thought he heard something move nearby, but when he paused, he found it to be nothing but a floorboard springing back or work of his guilt-induced paranoia. There was no sign of housemaids, ghosts, evil spirits — nor, thankfully, Jarvis.

The passage stretched before him as far as he could see, fifty feet long, like an oblong tunnel. Tony was staring unblinkingly ahead of him, trying to discern the right door through the darkness … and then, without warning, something banged downstairs.

He spun and looked around, listening again. He turned a full circle on the carpet, the silence pressing harder than ever against his strained ears. He knew he had not imagined it, but nothing was making a sound except the rasp of his elevated breathing.

Now what? Tony thought desperately. If he could be sure it was just a housemaid … or an air bubble in the pipes … but still, no cause made itself known. There was nothing for it…

He doubled back, a hand brushing across walls to guide him in his hurry.

He no longer found use for furtiveness; he dashed down the steps and let the carpet-muffled echo of it scare off the vandal downstairs, where, he was sure, the person was now standing frozen, aware that someone in the house was awake. This gave Tony the needed courage to skip over the last three steps, and witnessed the drawing room door loom out of the dark wall ahead.

It was ajar; Tony could not remember Jarvis leaving it unlocked last evening, nor having seen a pale strip of light pooling under the gap minutes ago. Tony crept closer to the door and pressed his ear against it. It was impossible to pick up a sound. He quietly pushed open the door.

A warm glow bathed half the room beyond orange, the source of which were the barely glowing embers in the fireplace. Here and there, a shadow moved as the pit spit a lone spark up the chimney; shadows danced on the walls and windows … and the thing that had made the noise revealed itself with another _bang! —_ the open window.

Feeling enormously relieved, Tony crossed the room to tug it shut.

But then, his hair stood up: in the black, glossy pane, something had caught his attention … something that should not be there, behind him in the room…

He swung around. A tall figure laid on the Persian carpet behind a couch. Bathed in moonlight, illuminated in a cold and silvery hue, untouched by the glow of the fire, it was unmistakably a man … it was Tiberius.

“Oh, for the love of—” Tony trailed off, slamming the wooden shutters closed with a _clang_. “You again?”

With the moonlight cut off, Tiberius’ ghostly appearance turned into one of slack slumber. Wondering at such visible state of oblivion, and feeling more than a little envious, Tony shuffled over to the sleeping man, fighting the petulant urge to kick him awake.

“Came here for more?” he asked and swayed slightly. “I’m afraid it’s pretty slim pickings.”

There was no answer.

“You’re not making a very splendid figure of yourself, but I’ll consider letting you sleep off your bad decisions, if you ask nice,” he went on, collapsing onto the carpet as well as the adrenaline leaked out of his body, leaving behind a feeling of fatigue and mild nausea. “We can amend the hostilities a little bit … I _do_ empathize with not having got the guts to face your father—”

He trailed off, for, after reaching out to shake Tiberius awake, his hand had instead of drunken slackness met with stiff muscles.

“Ty?” he stuttered. “What?”

A dark pool of blood, almost black in the monochrome of night, was spread across Ty’s chest, and which Tony had mistakenly taken to be a spill of wine; Tony wrenched back his hands in horror, but too late: they were already stained and sticky with cool blood.

“Shit … shit, _shit_. JARVIS!” he bellowed.

He felt vulnerable and besieged; how had somebody not only gotten themselves in, but brought a dead body with them, without awakening any of the not so insignificant staff? If only he had a way of photographing the room, to survey it even when no one was in, to prove his innocence; he could practically feel his brain whirr with this conception. There was a long and pregnant silence in which Tony could only hear his harsh breaths and feel the tremble of his hands by his sides, and which was broken at last by the hurried footsteps and wheezing coming from behind the corner.

Jarvis sprang in, dressing gown crookedly knotted, and for one instant stopped dead, staring at the figures in the room — and then he cried out a reflexive, “Are you alright, sir?”

His eyes fell on Tiberius.

Jarvis did not move or speak as he took in the blotch of blood on the body, and then the matching stains spread over Tony’s hands. Tony kept staring at him unblinkingly. For a few seconds, Jarvis seemed transfixed, his eyes wide as he stared down at Tiberius. Then he appeared to come to life again.

“Sir — how —?”

Tony’s insides clenched like a fist. “Help,” he whispered.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again,
> 
> Oh, what a time, what a time ... this virus really be taking so long that me, a marathon writer extraordinaire, manages to post not one but two (!!) fics before it is all over. Sigh.
> 
> If you don't know me from my previous fic, hi, I'm twenty-five-year-old, northern European who spends far too much effort on writing about fictional characters she is never going to publish for profit, and only in fandoms that are either dead or dying when I traipse in, late to the party as usual #StoryOfMyLife. Anyway, they've been showing the OG's, the crime mama's, creme de la creme on tv since July and my, uh, fingers slipped? And they slipped some more ... like, a lot? And now there's 31,5K on my Word document, half-unedited, cause in this house we use no beta. We die like meh.
> 
> Liked it? Loved it? Then tell me your thoughts below!
> 
> And I with this, I wish you a VERY Happy New Year, may it be a start to a better one than the last


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N]
> 
> [1] It's been 48h since the first chapter but since I have no update schedule, have at it
> 
> [2] It might take longer for the next bit ... but since you clicked on a story with a [2/?], you knew what you might be getting into, you brave, brave soul.
> 
> [3] Also, yeah, I kind of went hard on the daddy issues aspect so bear with me while I shamelessly use this fic as a form of catharsis lmao
> 
> [4] Am I churning historical AU after AU to hide the fact I'm not too savvy about modern tech lingo,which is, coincidentally, pretty essential to writing a character like Tony Stark?  
> Yup. RIP to 2020 but I'm different.

Tony glanced back repeatedly at the landing, half-expecting to find a bank of Police-Constables stomping up the stairs to arrest him. Tony, who did not feel as carefree as he had pretended when reassuring Jarvis to call the police, was silent in his observing of the crowded drive. A Constable and Doctor Banner had pulled up minutes ago, tailed by another black car bearing a plain-clothed man with a camera, and an ambulance.

Below him came the noise of the large, wooden shutters in the drawing room being opened at last. No one had touched the room since Tony had left it to the care of Jarvis, who he could still hear talking to the Constable guarding the door of the room.

A mixture of gratitude and shame welled up in Tony; he knew that they would not believe him. Now that he came to think of it, even Jarvis must have his doubts; must believe that, after the loss of both his parents, meeting the man who had once broken his heart had finally been the last nail of the coffin of his sanity. Even Tony himself was less and less sure as the time went on … as more and more black cars congregated below…

Down in the grounds, a stretcher bearing a white sheet exited the house and was loaded into the back of the white van. It soon tore off down the lane, disappearing from sight behind the oaks but not before swerving around another black car, which pulled up into the van’s vacated spot. Two men climbed out of it, eyeing the house. Their gazes swept over the windows, and although they could not have seen Tony, he found himself retreating several steps.

The heavy sound of the front-door bolt being drawn back echoed distantly through the hubbub floor below, then there was a single pair of footsteps thumping up onto the landing and an officer rounded the corner.

Down below, Tony had merely glimpsed a dark thin-brimmed hat, and wide shoulders. Now, he had the chance to take in all of him — fair skin, straw-blond hair, plain pants, and an open overcoat coat that did no favours to what appeared to be a _spectacular_ figure — and, by the time the man had reached Tony, he was feeling remarkably less sorry for himself.

“Are you Mr. Anthony Stark?”

“Yeah, you found me, Gary Cooper.”

The man gave Tony a single blink so wide-eyed, Tony felt he had acted outside whatever parameters of interaction the man had assigned beforehand — Tony, most likely, _had_.

“It’s Inspector Rogers, actually,” the man said, looking flustered as he clutched his hat to his chest. “I’d be glad to have a few words with you, if I may.”

“Yes,” Tony granted, rather painlessly. “Let’s see what I can get going on here.”

He started to lead the way to the left wing with a calculated stroll. A silence spread between them in uneasy ripples. It wasn’t until they were past the landing that Rogers went for an attempt at pleasantry.

“You’re an early riser, Mr. Stark.”

“Actually, I haven’t been to bed yet,” Tony replied. “No rest for the wicked.”

At this, he glanced back at the detective, as though checking the impact of his witticism, but found the man’s pale brows set into a one, severe line as he followed noiselessly; this brought the small talk into an irredeemable halt which, in turn, lasted until they entered the oblong study.

Tony gestured toward a sofa group, which Rogers paid no heed to; instead, he walked about the room, inspecting the thirty-foot long and ceiling-high bookshelves in interest, as though the gilded-lettered spines might reveal to him a sensible explanation of the night’s events.

Throwing himself into his father’s tufted chair, Tony let out an exasperated gust of air. Clearly, Inspector Rogers did not plan for his interrogation to be short and succinct and was now striving to have Tony admit to something unpleasant. There was no other option but to hear what he had to say and keep his answers as curt as possible. And to possibly make it to the workshop on time.

“As a matter of interest,” Tony said, laid far back in the seat, “I hope you’ll not arrest my butler. Is that not the common way? In their defence, serving somebody all hours of a day does sound like a handful — and they would be really good at cleaning off the blood.”

Tony got a sudden mental image of Jarvis mopping at his blood, and felt hilarity rise in his throat, born no doubt of the scotch he had consumed. A giggle escaped his lips.

Rogers stopped looking at the shelves.

“You know, I knew your father. I was sad to learn of his death,” he said, frowning. “He was too young to go.”

Tony’s cheek smarted; he was surprised to find out he was clenching his jaw.

“England must be a real fountain of youth,” he said acidly. “The help got younger every year.”

“Howard Stark is — _was_ — a respected man,” said Rogers, whose ears had reddened under his neatly combed hair.

It was an attractive blush, yet Tony’s rising dislike of the man rather impaired the pleasure.

“Oh, how _well_ you knew him,” he mocked. “Him and the two things he was good at. One of the two lead him to crash his car into an English oak.” Tony, hand shaking, straightened the fountain pens by his knuckles into a neat row, and spoke, “You’ve been here for twenty minutes, so I’ll give you another fifteen to hash out what you need. After that, I’m going to continue my day as it was, that is, with or without you.”

By the shelves Rogers stiffened, but said, “Understood.”

“So, there’s no need to beat around the bush. Ask what you need, and I’ll see which I feel fit to answer.”

Rogers gave Tony a cool, appraising look. Tony had the impression that the man was assessing whether it was beneficial opening hostilities this early on.

“Meaning if I can’t tell whether you did or did not do it in a quarter of an hour, I won’t be able to in a day?” he said. “Week?”

“Just about.”

“Murder is complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it,” said Tony and glanced at the silver-framed table clock on the edge of the desk. “Fourteen and counting…”

“May I?” asked Rogers, hand on the back of a chair he was about to draw for himself. He sat down. Just as he pulled out a little booklet, a knock came from the door.

“Ah, the man of the hour,” Tony said, as Jarvis pushed in, hands bearing a tray of ill-sorted cups. Tony could not help noticing he was not very taken by the disarray that had fallen over the house, given his disgruntled air over the misfit tea-things.

“I thought the gentlemen would be in need of refreshments.”

“Don’t say ‘refreshments,’” said Tony. “I’m already feeling underdressed,”

As Jarvis set the tray on the desk, Tony sensed Rogers stealing looks at him, which both thrilled and unnerved Tony. He lifted his eyes to Roger’s. This was a mistake; they gazed at each other as the atmosphere, already tense, became stifling.

“What did you do between the hours of midnight and 5 a.m.?” Rogers inquired, still watching Tony closely.

 _“Wow,_ this is thrilling,” said Tony brashly. “May I say that righteous intent is a good look on you, Reagan.”

“It’s Rogers.”

“Don’t make a meal out of it,” Tony dismissed. “I can’t even remember where I was during breakfast. I have people for that.”

Jarvis straightened. “This _is_ breakfast, sir.”

“Huh,” Tony hummed in genuine surprise. “See, he is people.”

Rogers did not bother to make a note of this news, though he, rightfully, established Jarvis as the reliable source of all things Tony.

Rogers, then, appealed to Jarvis.

“Can you vouch for Mr. Stark’s movements during the night.”

Tony looked up. Jarvis hesitated.

“As I said, before I retired to bed at nine, I saw Mr. Stark leave to the cellar, where I presume he stayed, up until he was seen in the hall by a housemaid at four thirty in the morning.”

Rogers looked as though he had heard exactly what he had expected, and wanted, to hear. He made a quick flash of a mark in his booklet, looking satisfied; Jarvis, on the other hand, appeared deeply troubled.

“You heard nothing?” Rogers made sure.

“I—I have since the death of late Mr. Stark been taking sleeping powder, sir,” said Jarvis, as though admitting to something indecent. “The effects were just wearing off when I woke to shouts.”

Rogers, again, frowned. “And the name of the maid?”

“Everhart, sir. Christine Everhart.”

“I’ll put it on the list.” Rogers did so. “Thank you, Jarvis,” he said pleasantly. “That will do.”

Jarvis looked at Tony, who waved him away, whereupon he gave a quick, jerky nod of the head and turned on the spot, making to leave the room.

“Oh!” he exclaimed suddenly. “A Ming-dynasty vase has gone missing from the drawing room, sir. Thought you should know.”

He left, muttering rather distinctly, “Unwashed dishes … that’s what happens when I’m not there to look after things … gossiping and blessing themselves, I’ll show them!”

When the door closed again, Rogers’ eyes were flying over the tea-things. He didn’t seem to be taken in with the Old Worcester porcelain so thin one could see the shadow of one’s finger on the other side. In fact, he appeared to be working himself up to something; a muscle slid in his jaw and he started:

“Do you treat _anything_ seriously?” Rogers said harshly, knuckles white around his pen. “If I had a dead man turn up in my house, I’d refrain from making immature cracks—”

“You would? I’m rather amused myself."

“Think of Tiberius Stone coming here, alive, expecting to see you, yet all he got in return was to bleed out on a hard floor, cold, and alone, and here you are, handling the loss of a life like he was a _lint_ you had to brush off of your carpet.”

“Are we back to this?” Tony said. “Homicide isn’t my style.” A slow prickling had started near his temples; he groaned, “Please stop frowning, you’re giving me a headache.”

Rogers leant back from where he had been poised forward, then hesitated. He picked a cup and stirred several lumps of sugar into his tea.

“When did you last see him alive?”

This was spoken smoothly, but there was something behind the words.

“Yesterday,” answered Tony in a similar tone. “I caught him trespassing around noon, kicked him out by two. Ask Happy, he’s the chauffer, by the way. Good with faces, if you need to ask about those, too.”

“I heard you once were close with Tiberius.”

Tony suppressed a twinge of anger. “A fact of no significance,” he said tartly.

“And how would you describe your relationship with him, then?”

“Was I ever tempted to do him in, you mean? Wondering what I’d have loved to see more than witness that stiff upper lip wobble?”

Whatever Roger’s answer to that might have been, Tony did not hear it, for at that exact moment, the telephone rang. Rogers startled; a bit of tea drippled onto his dish.

“We’re not finished,” said Rogers to Tony, who had reached out his arm for the trembling receiver. “Do you keep guns in the house?”

Tony levelled him a look.

“I want to see them.”

 _“All_ of them?”

“It’s a standard procedure.”

Tony flailed his hands in exasperation. “Take them. Take all of them for all I care.”

“Thank you,” said Rogers and made another note in his crisp black notebook. “Did you see or hear anything unusual at night between one and five?”

 _Ring, ring:_ the telephone’s sound was getting harder and harder to ignore; it was now pressing on Tony’s eardrums and he felt something start to pound on the back of his eyes. Tony knew better, though, than to say what he did or did not like; Roger’s face held a hint of interest at his discomfort that came across as dangerous.

“Well, there was a rogue window, but—” another ring, another denial “ — just take a look yourself, this is hundreds of acres of land. A lot of things happen here that I’m not aware of — ” _ring_ “ — uh, sorry, can I take this? This is nuts. It’s like Chinese water torture.”

Rogers, as though wishing nothing more than to see him squirm some more, gave his permission with visible reluctance.

“Take it,” he said quietly.

Tony met Rogers’ blue eyes and lifted the receiver to his cheek.

“Yes? Oh, Colonel Ross.” Tony’s voice underwent a visible modification. “Good morning.”

In front of him, Tony noted with satisfaction the at once unnerved air about Inspector Rogers as the tinny voice of the Superintended went on through the round earpiece, harried in the way one was when squeezed between a rock and a hard place: attempting to please two important members of the gentry at the same time; the principal magistrate of the district, whose dead son had just been extracted from Tony’s Persian rug; and the son of the generous patron of the police department, and whom they very much wished to hold onto the tradition.

“What can I do for you? — I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch — _Rogers_ , did you say? — yes? — yes, if you please — quite, yes, I feel much better already.”

After a savouring pause bordering on inappropriate, Tony held over the receiver.

“It’s for you,” he said to Rogers.

Wordlessly, Rogers exchanged his cup for the receiver. Tony rather thought he was being sneered at for abusing his station, but he did not much care for anything else but the fifteen minutes and then some that had already been spent eying the mulish set of lines on Roger’s face. As Tony pretended to inspect his fingers while listening in to the call, he found there was caked blood under a fingernail. He went to bite it off, then, upon reflection, aborted the order hastily.

“Sir, I — yes, sir, but I — no, understood, sir — right away, sir.”

Tony watched, feeling rather vindicated, as Rogers leaned over his desk to drop the receiver back onto the switchhook.

“Shall I walk you to the door?” asked Tony breezily, shoving his hand deep into a pocket.

Evidently Rogers had no other suggestions. After squinting at Tony for a moment or two, Rogers rose, mirroring Tony, who did as he had suggested, with the horrible feeling of seeing off a ticking timebomb.

“Mind your step,” he warned, coming upon the glimmering of a Brunswick star at the stairs; a helmeted Constable was inspecting the rope-twist spindles, knelt on the carpet, and moved aside as they passed.

When their feet touched the parquet floor of the hall, Tony found himself face to face with a Police Sergeant, who had just come out of the drawing room, closing the door behind him.

He stopped short and stared at Steve. Then he looked at Tony. Then back at Steve. Tony realized they must have been still radiating poorly concealed hostility, and probably looked as if they had engaged in a battle of words and Tony had come out on top — which he had.

“Hey, I think I know you. Barnes, was it?” Tony said, and squinted at him. “Sorry, just trying to remember if I liked you or not.”

Barnes was staring again. Then he seemed to pull himself together and said with slight effort, “It’s been a few weeks. Unfortunately, I can’t say the circumstances have changed much.”

Tony sucked on his tongue, though the reminder somehow hurt less coming from the mouth of Barnes, than it had from the man still hovering tall behind Tony.

“I’ve advised your help to keep the room locked,” said Barnes, who had always been good at skating over uncomfortable talks, and handed the key of the room over to Tony. “Don’t open it — under any circumstances.”

“Pity,” said Tony, rather carelessly pocketing the key. “Just when I’d planned to hold a séance by the stain.”

Barnes, out of habit, knew not to put too much weight on this, and snickered.

“Show us out, doll, and you’ll have us out of your hair,” he said good-naturedly.

However, as the three of them moved to the front door, the two men exchanging looks over the top of Tony’s head, Rogers made avoiding eye contact impossible by turning to face him under the arch of the entry. Behind his back, Bucky continued to stroll to their car. Tony watched him go, feeling forsaken; he appeared to be a stabilizing influence and Tony was sorry to see him gone.

Rogers rallied at once.

“You’re not in America anymore, Mr. Stark,” he said dangerously. “You might be man of the world, but you should not let wealth lull you into a feeling of false immunity.”

“I was _framed!”_ Tony hissed, aggravated.

But Rogers heard none of it.

“Get some sleep while you can,” he murmured quietly. “Don’t want to let things like guilt keep you up.”

Tony brought a hand to his heart.

“As soon as your taillights disappear behind the tree line, I’ll go straight to bed, honest to God.”

“You wouldn’t know honesty if it fell on your lap,” Rogers said, lashes hooding his eyes.

Tony, feeling suddenly brazen, replied, “Well, unfortunately, you aren’t on my lap.”

The result was instant; Rogers’ serious countenance gave away to something young and foreign on a face like his, and as Tony reflected on this, the wide-eyed look deepened into a blush that bloomed across Roger’s cheeks, his ears and, at length, down his throat.

By the car, unseen by them, Barnes opened and shut the door. The bang, however, awoke them to his presence. Roger’s flustered expression cleared. He ripped a page from his booklet, on which spelled a line of instructions.

“Surrender your passport to Constable Lang. For further notice, you’re not to leave the British soil,” he said before he turned away without another word and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Tony, frozen, witnessed the car leave, much like when he had seen it approach, with mixed emotions.

***

Tony hardly slept that night. The murder had taken possession of him, and he could not rest while agitating thoughts whirled through his head: the empty house, Ty’s body, and its bloody wound.

 _It was a message_ … but what did it say? Who had sent it? And, each time he passed the sealed door, Tony could not help but wonder — _what now?_

Where was the killer and what was he doing? Tony had caught sight of Barnes only twice during the past days. Rogers rarely appeared anymore, and Tony was sure Jarvis was right in thinking that Rogers was only leaving the station to collect statements from where they were readily given. Had there been enough new evidence to save Tony? Or had, as he feared they would, the killed while wearing the face of a witness spun the web of lies thicker, more elaborate, and harder for Tony to escape? Barnes had said the case was proceeding; Tony had felt comforted, bolstered; and now he felt slightly apprehensive.

It had not been enough, as his supposed freedom proved, to have reasonable grounds for an arrest. So, had that been all? Had Tony’s recent trouble been satisfactory to them? If it had, how truly despicable was it to use a human life like a disposable tool … but, if this was just the start, what more was yet to come? And it was these thoughts that spurred him out of his spiralling descent into cabin fever, and into the town down south.

His way to the shops, as Tony saw when he got out of his car that he had parked far off to keep a low profile, skirted the local police station. The warmth of the sun caressed his face as he passed its high-set windows and two-toned brick wall, and he got savage pleasure in imagining Rogers pouring uselessly over a ceiling-high mountain of guns delivered from his house in three separate police vehicles; he had not been seen since.

Several people stopped their walking at the sight of him — Tony felt their stares like something white hot pressing to the side of his face — and he pressed his sunglasses tighter on the bridge of his nose, but before he could veer to the other side of the road, he heard a loud roar, and signs of commotion by the black grille opening to the courtyard of the police station.

“Are you doubting my word,” said a man, a livid red flush on his face, walking backwards from the open gate.

As he stepped out of the shadow of the building, Tony finally recognized his puffy face as that of Mr. Stern, member of Parliament. A uniformed Constable was following after him, looking apologetic and powerless as Stern went on, loudly enough for the whole street to witness.

“This is an outrage! Slander!”

“Sir—”

“To be questioned like a common criminal, I most certainly will not have it!”

He then whipped his walking stick out of the Constable’s hands, turning the action into a fierce full stop, before ducking into a waiting car. His barking directions to his chauffer were cut off by the slam of the door.

There was a long silence. The street had grown quiet, the stragglers that had witnessed the scene had forgot Tony’s presence, and Tony used the cover of astonishment to slip past the grille and into the double fronted shop next-door.

Here, the tingle of a bell welcomed him in.

It smelled of freshly cut roses, damp soil and the perfume of the woman bustling from the counter to a confused customer and back. As he took a step in, a head popped up from behind the assortment of bouquets.

“Anthony?” it asked. “Is that you?”

“Oh, boy,” sighed Tony in an undertone.

And sure enough, Justin Hammer and his smarmy smile swept over impetuously past the glass vases brimming with roses.

“Hey, pal,” he cheered in a drawl. “What a small world we live in, right? Right? As for myself,” he went on, rather importantly, “I’m here to collect a big order for a — well, I don’t know if you heard that it’s a grand time for a knees-up in honour of, well…”

Tony noted that his face was an odd mixture of slyness and the fever of anticipation.

“Earlier this morning, you see, we shook hands to close a spectacular deal under the nose of a rival, naming no names.”

He gazed at Tony, looking expectant.

Unwilling to play along, Tony asked, “Is your order taking long?”

Hammer gave a little, airy laugh, “I already got them, but beauty always draws me back.”

He eyed Tony.

“Have you — have you truly not heard? Dad bought Reed Tech.”

The last was said in a reluctant rush as though he had wished to taste to words a little longer on their way out. Under Hammer’s half-frustrated, half-affronted gaze, Tony felt that small prickle of alarm in his spine grow into a sense of foreboding. It did strike a memory; he had heard it from Obie’s mouth. Now, hearing the name again, he rather wished SS France would take a detour, preferably around Greenland, to stall Obie’s no doubt stormy arrival…

He let none of this show on his face. “Congrats,” he offered mechanically.

“Thanks,” said Hammer, visibly upset now that his sensational news had not gained its preferred effect. “I mean, I felt bad, of course I did. My heart bled at taking advantage of such a time, but —” Hammer shrugged, a small smirk playing at the edges of his mouth “— early bird _does_ get the worm.”

“Hm, then I suggest you familiarize yourself with the words, _caveat emptor.”_

“Ha, ha, right,” said Hammer, grinning wider now. “Good one, good one.”

They were blocking the doorway; Tony realized this as an elderly lady hovered by the register, wary of passing the two of them at the mouth of the entry.

“You’re standing in front of my lilies,” said Tony, who had taken an impatient look over Hammer’s shoulders.

“Come on, Anthony,” Hammer lamented, although he did step away from the white, fragrant flowers. “Is this how you treat a friend of family?”

This was stretching the truth to breaking point; as far as Tony knew, Howard and Hammer Sr. hadn’t been alone together in a decade, and direct contact between them had been negligible after a rivalrous weapons deal. However, Hammer did not deem it necessary to fact check this. He put his hand around Tony’s shoulder and drew him close.

“Absolutely, my grief is nothing to yours, Anthony. Bearing flowers for your old man? I’m touched, I really am. What a hero, your dad. Should I do my service, too, do you think?”

“Well, you can save it. He’s under several pounds of stone. And rather unable to appreciate it,” said Tony, who dodged the contact. “To service him would be to ignore consent, which is as good as violating the right of sepulchre or rape, depending on what you believe of the Hereafter.”

Hammer’s ever-present grin faded slowly. For a few moments something sinister seemed to cloud his eyes, but then the smile reappeared upon his face so suddenly it was rather alarming.

“What a joker,” he said, throwing a look the elderly woman now clutching her wicker basket in a white-knuckled grip as if sharing a secret. “All bark, no bite, yeah.”

The woman, having been so promptly and directly spoken to, startled and retreated onto a display; as she and the saleswoman rushed to gather the scattered flowers, Tony plucked a bunch of lilies, slipped around the women and threw several notes on the register. Behind him, he heard a commotion as Hammer tried to follow but got his jacket caught on a decorative arrangement, and by the time he got his hem detached from the clutch of the gilded branch, Tony had already tugged the door open with force that rattled the OPEN sign, tugging his sunglasses higher up his nose.

But when Tony skipped down the two stone steps, lilies in hand, it was to find Constable Lang by the pavement. Tony looked at him, startled; he had not counted for this, he had prepared to only evade the fish wives.

Tony tapped the man on the shoulder, startling him.

“Ease off, Sheriff,” he said, pulling back his hand. “You can tell Rogers I’m done shopping for the day.”

“S-sure, Mr. Stark.”

Out in the street, Tony examined his sunlit surroundings to check whether the coast was clear. Yes, the car belonging to Hammer was still parked … nothing else seemed to be moving apart from a dark vehicle that had just taken off from in front of the bakery … Tony had taken his first step back towards his Cadillac, when he felt something was off … something distinctly odd…

The dark car moved slowly — too slowly, for merely trying to gain momentum and get the engine to warm up. It seemed as though it was reluctant to pass Tony, frozen at the pavement, for he had recognized the model … it belonged to Ty’s father.

Tony stared warily at the car. Mr. Stone was supposed to be in mourning — so what was he doing, sneaking around town, doing trivial tasks better suited to be done by the help? Tony watched closely as the car coasted level with him, then passed, the light filtering through the windows revealing the figure of a middle-aged man, staring resolutely at the road ahead…

Tony hesitated, thinking … and then resumed his retreat back to his car. However, he kept his eyes on the back of the distancing vehicle, wondering … it just did not seem in character, somehow, for correct, magistrate Mr. Stone to be taking matters to his own hands like this…

And then, halfway to his Cadillac, not watching where he was going, not concentrating on anything but the strange actions of Mr. Stone, Tony came across a dark figure intercepting his path, and the bouquet, suddenly slippery in his sweating hands, slipped from under his arm — he lurched forward, caught it, and raised his gaze to the man before him.

“Has it really been so long,” said a voice that was most familiar, “that you no longer recognize a friend.”

With a leap of pleasure, Tony recognized his company; the man’s close-cropped head shined almost blue in the rare sunlight, and he, too, wore shades.

_“Rhodey!”_

Tony let himself be pulled into a crushing one-armed hug. He felt some of his ever-present tension leak, breathing Rhodey in.

“I got a week’s leave,” said Rhodey, chest vibrating. “I couldn’t leave you by yourself, Tones. I’m sorry I missed the … last weeks.”

“Right,” said Tony, pulling away.

It was a sticky moment: Tony had sensed the word _funeral_ in the offing anyway. Rhodey rushed on, “Where’s your ride?”

“Oh, I couldn’t find a spot…” said Tony indifferently.

Rhodey eyed the empty curb at the front of the store. Then his eyes caught something behind Tony. “Who’re they?”

The men in question looked up when caught, standing by the showcase of the floral shop. It wasn’t Hammer, or Stone — it was, however, something almost as abominable. With a familiar expression of dark-lashed dislike, Inspector Rogers took in the streets spreading around him in either direction, until finally meeting Tony’s eyes, that narrowed behind his shades; even his occupied mind _should_ have realized the ominously familiar Westbury Borough Police plated car did not belong to Lang.

“The security detail,” said Tony, tone nonchalant.

Rhodey just gave him a blankly curious look. “Yours?”

“No, the town’s. Apparently, I’m likely to go on a murder spree when unrestrained,” he said, and witnessed Rhodey’s face darken as Tony retold the story of the past forty-eight hours he had already recounted what felt like a hundred times to Jarvis, to the Constables and to Inspector Rogers.

“So, the body was pushed in through a window?” said Rhodey, looking contemplative.

“Yes,” said Tony at once; he was glad to be able to discuss this without needing to get defensive. “Then laid on the carpet—”

“Forced?”

“The latch wasn’t broken.”

“Would they have gotten in without damaging it?”

“Probably,” said Tony, “but why go through the trouble?”

“To frame you? But why,” asked Rhodey, suddenly suspicious, “are the police after _you_ , though?”

“I guess someone has been very obligingly helpful in telling about our past and my apparent laundry list of character defects, and I have my suspicions as to who it is.”

“You don’t think he was still alive when they brought him in? Or that he found the window already open, broken by the vase-thief? A robbery gone wrong?”

A grin tugged at the corners of Tony’s mouth. “That’s your reasoning? Was he snuffed by Jarvis?”

“Maybe he had mud on his shoes,” said Rhodey.

Tony laughed. They had reached his car; he jumped over the closed door onto the driver’s seat. As he double-clutched, Rhodey opened and closed the passenger side door, sliding in with a creak of dipping leather.

“Are you okay?” asked Rhodey whose brown eyes looked anxious under his frown.

Tony nodded but even as he did so, an insane urge to confess he was afraid came over him. He looked up at Rhodey — perhaps he could pull his military strings again, to get the best American lawyers on the case? He’d be delighted … a bit too delighted, Tony decided, quickly abandoning the idea.

“Peachy,” he said instead, and pulled off the pavement with a twist of the wheel.

Tony thought the subject had been closed, but after a silent car ride he was sorry to find Rhodey stealing glances at him over the stone lid bearing his mother’s name, and which now held a fresh bouquet of lilies, along with a slightly wilted vase of blush roses, brought no doubt by Jarvis the week before.

“I hate to see you like this,” Rhodey said, voice respectfully soft, but echoing bleakly. “You’re my best friend, Tony.”

“Yeah, we’re all right, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” asked Rhodey and looked over his shoulder to where Howard rested. “You don’t talk about this. Not about _him_. Not about anything.”

“You know me,” said Tony evasively. “Not one for talking.”

“Is that your father talking or you?”

Silence fell between them and Tony wished there was something other than four bare walls to use to catch his friend’s attention with. Rhodey glanced towards him and Tony thought he saw a trace of disappointment in his eyes.

Rhodey stepped closer. His eyes fell on the engraving of the lid. He read aloud:

“Steady thy laden head across a brook, or by a cyder-press with a patent look, thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.”

“Keats,” said Tony, who hardly recognized his own voice. “She found it romantic.”

A silence fell.

“Look,” said Rhodey suddenly, “every single person deals with their grief differently … but what you’re doing…”

“Rhodes—”

A quick flash of a movement caught Tony’s eye: he tensed, there was a chink of glass and a soft brush of petals. Tony peeked over his raised shoulders, ready to shield himself: but there was nothing to defend.

No one had raised a fist: there was only Rhodey, standing there with a lily held courteously in his hand, looking down at the engraved name of Tony’s father on the flat rock. His eyes were no longer disappointed, but their normal brown; they were also wet.

Tony stooped, pretending he had not seen, and picked up a dead chestnut leaf from next to his dew-sodden shoes as Rhodey carefully laid down the flower as though to underline the letters, now joining the vase of half-dried roses atop the tomb.

A sniffle was picked up by the unkind acoustics of the room. Rhodey had sunk his face into his hands. With a start, Tony realized this was the first time Rhodey had seen them since their deaths.

Tony crumbled the leaf to shreds in his fist, walked up to Rhodey and placed a hand, cautiously, on the small of his back. He took it as a good sign the body underneath was not shaking.

“So,” said Rhodey eventually in a low but composed voice, which Tony was grateful for, “how does it taste to own a manor?”

“Like old scotch at three in the morning,” replied Tony honestly.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N] Sorry, kind of rushed the editing of this one because it's, umm, apparently been a month? So, mistakes? One hundred per cent on me, folks. In my defense, there was a bit of a 'Snowmageddon' and I spent roughly 8 days shoveling my driveway, the neighbor's driveway and my grandma's driveway. At this point, my back's like a Schwarzenegger.
> 
> [Obie's tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o3aI7Oo3GMo) if you're curious about that sort of thing lol

How could he have dreamed of staying in America? Jarvis’ delight at having the house inhabited, and especially at having Tony back, was infectious. He was no longer the grieving man from the funeral; now he seemed determined that Tony and Rhodey should enjoy as much, if not more than they would have done had the body not been found, and he worked tirelessly in the run-up to Obie’s arrival. Everything metallic was polished into high gleam; the winter dessert service was replaced by a more seasonally appropriate Spode in the bull cabinet of the dining room, and, at last, the door to the master bedroom was opened to air it out for the first time in weeks. The only room that remained untouched by this one-man pursuit to pretend nothing was amiss was the drawing room.

And it did not appear to be stopping until, finally, midst placing the steaming sauce on the dining table, the cook spoke up:

“It was so good of Mr. Jarvis, bless his poor heart, to try and direct the blame off you, sir, by smartly mentioning the burglary,” she noted conversationally.

This was a rather enormous breach of etiquette, brought on, no doubt, by walking in on Rhodey and Tony discussing the case over dinner.

“A bit too keen, I’m afraid. The detectives did not seem to put much weight on it … and this young, striking sort of chap, Rogers was his name, did not seem to me as a person easily fooled.”

Tony was careful not to catch Rhodey’s eyes.

“I fear poor Mr. Jarvis will wear himself thin in an attempt to side-track him … a devoted man, Jarvis, a very devoted man…” She faltered and the colour of her cheeks, always pinked by the Victorian kitchen range, deepened as she defended, “I am asking this not as a cook but a woman; can you do something to ease his mind? I suppose he won’t stop otherwise. He’s so very taken in with you, treats you as if you were his own flesh and — oh, goodness sake! The _meat!”_

She dashed off.

Here, Rhodey, who had been looking gradually more and more uncomfortable at being waited on, took the plunge, and said, “What if I took—”

“No.”

“Really, Tony. There’s nothing wrong with the inn. At least there I’ll receive only what I paid for—” He spoke louder, then, over Tony’s protests “—and you heard her! The man’s about to break his back. We barely got him to come down from the stepladder and at his age—”

“You’re no trouble,” said Tony swiftly.

“I feel like trouble,” Rhodey said, frowning.

“Don’t contradict me. I’m an orphan.”

Rhodey looked on mutinously over the set table.

“The only reason I haven’t packed my bags already is because I’ve been too scared to leave you alone,” he said firmly.

Tony, who did not want to look as though anything odd was happening, seeing as Rhodey had only just stopped thinking he was a frail, weak thing, said, “I’m not afraid.”

“Exactly.”

A silence swelled. Out of respect to Rhodey, and having more than a few secrets of his own, Tony did not point out how he had stayed up and through the wall heard the sound of steps and rustling while the eery wind howled outside, and how they had been replaced by the sound of deep, slow breathing only after the sky had shown signs of breaking dawn.

“I could stay if—”

“No, no,” Tony said and waved his fork at Rhodey imperiously. “You wanted to leave, you do as you please. Don’t change your mind for my sake. Besides,” said Tony, having just heard a car pull up in front of the house through the open door of the dining room. “Who says the case isn’t solved by the time you settled in. Then who’s the fool?”

Indeed, by the time the dinner was finished, they found the dark-uniformed Police-Constables talking to two of the housemaids in the hall outside.

“…the backdoor leading into the yard from the servants’ quarters, that wasn’t used, you said?”

“Certainly. I saw nothing,” said the paler of the two, Christine Everhart.

“Really? Last you said, you _witnessed_ your employer, Mr. Stark, in the hall around four o’clock so, clearly, you moved about,” said the left Police-Constable doubtfully. “The door’s right by your room.”

“I—I, well, I did!” told Everhart quickly. “I saw him. But other than that, nothing. Tilly snores loud enough to mask a gunshot.”

“You yourself did not happen to notice, miss, when you later ran out of the rooms towards the noise in the hall, whether it had been used or left ajar at all?”

“I—I had no reason to look,” she said, sounding perplexed. “Didn’t you say there was a window involved or has the story changed already? _Oh,_ but this is all so very thrilling!”

She finished this on a rather happy note, and looked over her shoulder as they passed. The look lingered. It left an unpleasant taste in Tony’s mouth.

“Are they all quite so airheaded?” remarked Rhodey as they had trundled up the stairs at hovered by the mouth of Rhodey’s room. “You’d think it’s all a plot of some radio drama.”

“I wish it was,” said Tony darkly. “At least then I could trust that somebody, somewhere, had a hold of the script.”

And though Tony would have rather jumped off the study window than admit it, by the time the shadows had lengthened and the night came his chivalrous decision to have Rhodey removed out of harm’s way was rapidly losing its glory.

Down underground, surrounded by four walls, he finally let himself feel a thrill of dread; his immediate thought was that someone keeping watch of the house, surely, would use his solitude as an opportunity? And at once came the dispiriting realisation that even if something happened, he would neither be heard nor believed. What a stupid situation to have landed himself in … and as Tony moved deeper into the workshop, he heard a scurrying of disturbed mice.

“Starks are made of iron,” he muttered, watching at his feet. “You’re not a separate alloy.”

Above him, a floorboard creaked.

Tony jumped, like spooked mouse himself, and listened to any further sounds from the locked drawing room above him. For one trembling second, he hesitated. Caution whispered: with the guns confiscated, going out to check was hardly a blueprint for survival. But curiosity, overwhelming curiosity, told him that he needed to see it himself. He set off in pursuit.

The stiff leather of his new shoes kept creaking, and at the cellar stairs, he pulled them off. He turned the door handle silently and crept into the hall.

The house was so dark he felt his eyes strain trying to take in light that was not there. His socks slid on the hardwood as he walked in further, and his rapidly thumping heart was working its way up his suddenly tight throat. With his sight unavailable, his hearing was picking up the slack; the silence was pressing and ominous, like a dense cloud. At the foot of the grand staircase he came to a still, blinked rapidly, and waiting for something to happen.

But then — so eerily similar to the day he had found Ty — he could make out that chink of faint light under the drawing room door.

Tony, now wishing more than anything he had insisted on Rhodey staying over, swirled around, staring about. Something sharp … anything…

There were portraits and other adornments littering the wall. He dived and ripped off a sword from a crest and held it high in front of him. He begun to walk closer to the door, blade first, and reached out to push the door open with a fingertip—

He came to a halt — for a split second, he thought he was seeing a robber inspecting their loot under a table lamp — and then, he slung the blunt sword over his shoulder, clicked the switch on the wall, and said, “Burning the midnight oil, Obie?”

Obadiah, startled, begun to turn, his shiny bald head and silvery beard gleaming brightly under the lit chandelier.

“My boy,” rumbled Obie, and set the round cap back on the decanter, “I did not expect anyone to be up at this hour.”

Tony gestured at him with his sword. “And why are _you?”_

Obie remained unperturbed. He sniffed at his half-full snifter and watched the golden liquid swirl in its bowl.

“Travel stress. You know how it is,” he explained. “I’m trying to ground myself, but you gotta admit, this house is damp.”

“Uh-huh, Malibu warm enough for you?”

“Tony, Tony. Come on, the solicitor called me. It’s the reading of the will today,” Obie said, strolling casually to the piano tucked in the corner of the room. He drew the bench under him and set his glass onto the glossy lid. “I have to be part of it.”

“Right,” said Tony. “How’s the company?”

Obie sighed. This was followed by several sorrowful minor chords.

“Yikes,” said Tony with feeling, finally walking into the room, having left the sword leaning against the jamb. “Did Jarvis let you in? This room’s out of bounds, I’m not sure if you’ve heard—?”

“Oh, I’ve heard all right,” replied Obie. “I’ve busted my back day and night to keep it from spreading beyond the society pages. Why do you think the Hammers got Reed? By skill?” He scoffed and his eyes fell into the corner by the door. “Nice toy.”

“Hm? Oh,” said Tony, who’s eyes had just caught the point of interest: a camera trip-wired to take a shot of anyone who opened the door, though as Obie was already in the untouched room, it would need a reboot. The shots were a one-off.

Obie’s pale brows had risen. “Is this how you waste away your nights? Tinkering?”

“It’s a prototype,” Tony brushed off.

He turned to the tray — the crystal decanter was empty. Obliquely, he cast glances at the glass in front of Obie; the liquid in it was quivering to the thrum of each press of key vibrating through the instrument.

“You know,” said Obie, looking down at the keyboard, unaware of Tony’s struggle, “you could show a little enthusiasm. It will be your face that’s expected at the board meetings by this time tomorrow.”

“They like you better,” replied Tony, edging closer to the grand piano. “You do it.”

Obie, at last, lifted his gaze and met Tony’s eyes; his looked almost black, deep in the shadow of his brow.

“Your father was one of the wisest men I’d ever known,” he sighed. “In private life, as well as business. I’ve seen the will, Tony. Stark is yours. Howard would not have left it to you, if he did not believe you capable.”

Tony, now so close his socked toe was touching the wheel of the piano, concealed with difficulty the rush of relief he felt at Obie’s words.

“Why didn’t he _tell_ me so?” asked Tony bitterly.

“Would you have listened?”

Tony shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

“That was rhetorical, just humour me. Can I have this?” said Tony and without waiting for permission made a grab at Obie’s snifter, holding it up by its round bowl. “’Cause technically, it’s mine … well, soon enough.”

And the glass was almost on his lips when—

 _“Let’s_ have you sober for today’s appointment, shall we?” said Obie sharply, eyes flashing, and his hand closed upon Tony’s wrist, preventing him from bringing the liquid to his lips.

Tony swallowed; the previous warmth leaked out as though he had been pierced by something sharp. Suddenly, although he knew it was nothing Pepper hadn’t already voiced, a wave of strong hatred surged inside him; at this moment, he hated everything about Obie, right down to the way Obie’s suit jacket was stretched tight over his back, where a crease made prominent several pounds of weight gain that had not been there since they’d last seen each other.

“Okay,” Tony said, abruptly, and placed back the glass, which rang out a noisy _clunk!_ “See? Easy.”

“Let me congratulate you on your restraint, then,” said Obie, picking up the glass, and attempted to balance it on the narrow music rack. “All five seconds of it.”

“Keep talking and I can go twenty,” Tony said irritably.

Obie, apparently, detected an underlying note of hurt in his tone.

“Hey, hey, Tony,” he said, rising up as Tony started to back away, closing off. “Tony, we gotta look up for each other. All right? It’s just you and me now.”

“Well, looks like it’s just you.” Tony retreated further. “Goodnight, Obie.”

The dramatic sound of _Toccata and Fugue_ in D minor rang in Tony’s ears as he dragged himself to bed for another sleepless night.

***

In the dark library lit by the slanting shafts of pale evening light, there were dozen-odd chairs pushed in a semi-circle around the large desk the solicitor had laid his brown attaché case on; three people, however, were not sitting: Anna Jarvis, who appeared to have aged more than a month since the funeral, was talking to the head of Maria Stark Foundation; in the background, Obie was going through the shelves, picking books at random and riffling through their pages carelessly.

He mustn’t have been as confident in the future of Stark as he had let on early this morning, thought Tony.

The library had filled gradually around them over the half hour. Jarvis kept showing in people. Tony sunk deeper into his chair upon each arrival, pushing his sunglasses higher and higher until they pressed painfully against the bridge of his nose.

Ten to one, though, the walnut doors swung open on their own accord and in walked a woman, whose hard-soled heels clicked as she approached, slowly and purposefully, to the desk surrounded by walls and walls of volumes.

She slid onto the heavy lid. Tony, over the top of his lenses, traced the trail of a cinched, belted waist, a scarf, and red lips to inquisitive brown eyes. Though the temples on either side were subtly greying, the picture of a woman in breeches, a knee-length tunic and a green loden armlet bearing a red felt crown of national service, was not far off.

“Hello, Anthony,” she greeted warmly. Then nodded to the man next to Tony. “Colonel Rhodes.”

“Huh,” said Tony in recognition. “Here to scrape off the skim from the milk before the rest have the chance, Aunt Peggy?”

“That’s not the interest I’m here to protect,” she told Tony. “Walked past the hall to see a dozen of them skitter thought like they were making mental notes to mark off furniture.”

Indeed, as they observed the room, they caught a distant cousin caress the Windsor chair she was sat on with a ravenous look, as though she was contemplating how they’d look in the parlour of her Georgian house.

“I heard you met Rogers,” said Peggy, rather out of the blue, when her voice filtered to Tony’s right, desk-facing ear.

Perhaps it was the tone or the way in which the name had been spoken, that had Tony’s head snapping back to her.

 _“You,”_ he said accusingly, “have a crush.”

There was no change of expression in Peggy’s face, though the rather quick shift of her lashes, to hood her eyes, gave her away.

“He does tend to leave on impression,” she said, finally.

Tony only hummed, noncommittal. Peggy lingered, then left to find a seat as Matthew Murdoc, the solicitor himself, arrived through the walnut doors.

Here, the Windsor-loving cousin jumped up like a jack-in-the-box. Highly embarrassed, she sat back down slowly, and thereafter remained in her seat. Tony, leaning back on his rear chair legs, gazed through his lashes at the attaché case in disguised avidness, and as Murdoc walked to it, every eye tracked his movements. At the back of the room, books had stopped shuffling.

“Do you know what’s it gonna say?” muttered Rhodey, muffled by his hand and barely moving lips.

“Do we have to bring distrust and suspicion to this relationship?” asked Tony, who gestured at the space between them. “It’s a bit of a grey area, but yes.”

Rhodey was about to object, but Tony shushed him — the solicitor was ready.

“As you are aware, Howard Anthony Walter Stark’s last Will and Testament has remained mostly unaltered for several years now.”

Tony’s heart began to pump rapidly. Mostly unaltered? But it should have been a sure deal, they had all agreed on that…

“I have here a simple document dated 13th of June 1935, which declares the following,” Murdoc stated rather mechanically, extracting said paper from the open case. “Legacies for Edwin and Anna Jarvis and the Maria Stark Foundation. The bulk of the estate, including Ditton Park and the shares in Stark Industries, passes on to his son, Anthony Edward Stark.”

Tony twisted in his seat to shoot a smirk at the cousins of his mother’s, who had waited with bated breath for Howard to kick the bucket for decades.

He then glanced at Rhodey, half-hopeful he might soften at this small instance of humour, but his eyes remained focused on the solicitor now fretting with a crisply white envelope. When Murdoc spoke again, his tone changed.

“Weeks ago, however, I received the following letter from late Mr. Stark, which contained the following document,” he explained, squinting at the paper through his small, round lenses. “It is a codicil to the original will, drawn up in his own hand. He states clearly his desire to leave everything he owns to Mr. Anthony Stark, as he trusts him to be a better man, and divide the fortune accordingly.”

With this, he leaned over the desk to hand over his copy of the safe key; Tony felt rather than saw every eye in the room chase its path into his arms.

As soon as the cool metal touched his palm, the room broke into disarray: there were cacophonous cries of discontent and, amidst it all, somebody was laughing rather maniacally; Tony, staring at the key, felt a raising sense of unreality crash upon him. Howard had written that? Tony was still fighting off the mad urge to grab the codicil and see for himself when a chair next to him creaked, and a large hand came to rest, heavily, on his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” said Obie, though he addressed not Tony, but the lawyer, “Mr. Murdoc, if it’s not against professional etiquette, how usual is this change of Will?”

“Ah,” said Murdoc, hesitating — then he spoke, quietly: “Mr. Stark made a habit of tweaking it once a year according to whichever relation had recently raised his ire.”

“It is official, then?”

Murdoc straightened. “The signatures have been checked and hold true.”

This appeased Obie. The hand on Tony’s shoulder gave two, emphatic claps.

“Way to go, my boy!” he cheered. “I’ll see you in New York in a week, yeah?”

“Raincheck?” muttered Tony. “Looks like I’m housebound for the foreseeable future.”

“Ah, come _on_. A house arrest is never unnegotiable. The police invented that to keep the hysteric wives happy.”

Tony stared resolutely at the desk before him. “It’s the law.”

“Yeah, as are bails.” Obie leaned in closer. “Listen to me, Tony. I need you, _we_ need you. You hear me? This is big. I can’t have you laying low when we’ve got to prove the boys in New York that Stark is still on top of the game.”

“The old man handed the B-18s over to the Army ages ago, what are they harassing us for?”

“Harassing _me_ ,” said Obie loftily. “I don’t remember you being present.”

“Then grow a spine and let them hear it. Don’t pass it on to me.”

The hand left his shoulder.

“You’ve at least taken a good look of the unfinished blueprints?” asked Obie, poorly hiding his keenness.

Tony stayed stubbornly silent.

“Am I then allowed to come by and see what you’re working on? Give you a hand?”

This time, Tony hesitated. He knew what hung on his decision. There was hardly any further reason for Obie to stay in England: now was the time to decide: Obie or an empty, unguarded house?

The answer was so laughably easy Tony wondered how he had not thought of it before. _A guard_.

“You can give me a dog. I want one. Find it for me.”

“A dog?” exclaimed Obie, who had just paused mid-bending over the desk in order to snatch a cigar from the malachite box. He scratched at his bald and sighed. “I’ll look into it, but, well—”

“That’s what dad always said—”

“… let’s leave this roomful of, uh, loving long-lost relatives,” continued Obie derisively with an ugly look cast at the room at large. “They’ll be fighting tooth and nail to have the codicil contested as soon as we leave. Shall we let them have their amusement?”

“Let’s,” Tony granted quickly; he had just seen Peggy rising up.

Leaving his chair, Tony felt Obie’s hand settle across his shoulders once more and he let himself be steered out of the library. He was thankful; the sheer bulk of Obie seemed to act as a buffer between him and any possible attempts at self-promotion, until, at last, the commotion cut off, ceased by the closing door.

“Are you sure—” started Obie and begun to round on Tony.

“You weren’t kidding about the rot,” said Tony with decisiveness as his fist clenched upon the key on his palm. “You’d be more comfortable at the King’s Arms. Rhodey says it’s cosy.”

Obie hesitated — but recognized the dismissal. He lifted up both his hands in a placating gesture, eyeing Tony in somewhat calculating fashion, before saying, “Hurry back home, all right? You’re looking peaky … are you sure you slept this morning? Go to bed, I’ll handle this.”

Tony nodded; here was a ready-made excuse not to talk to any of the others, which was precisely what he wanted, so as the library doors opened behind them, Tony hurried straight past the hall, up the stairs and into the landing.

Here, he found his feet turning left, to the study, where he migrated as though in a daze to the desk and sat heavily down on the chair, the solicitor’s voice echoing in his ears with every step he took _. ‘Your father_ _— he trusts you to be a better man.’_ He had been stewing his resentment at Howard for so long — prepared to never let the happy memories outweigh the bad — that now when he suddenly found some more of the good, he did not know where he stood. Was it love — or something he’d always taken to be affection? What did love _feel_ like anyway?

For several minutes, he sat and watched his father looking sternly upon the room. He felt much calmer, somehow, now that it was all official. And although the things he had pushed back to a ‘later time’ still felt insurmountable, knowing he had Obie there to guide him, soothed him. Tony looked at the desk. By each knee, there were four drawers, most of which he had already gone through, except for the last, locked one. He was gazing at it, remembering how a key had been handed to him, when he caught his father’s eyes again and walked to the portrait.

Here, he lifted his hands, trailing them up the gilded frame and, once he had a good, strong grip of it, lifted it off its hook, behind of which emerged a metal façade. He brought the key in his hands, which were now sweating mildly, to the keyhole.

And it opened.

Tony’s heart was pumping rather fast again as he bent closer, his head almost inside the safe: yellowing papers of various sizes lay in listing stacks, money was tucked at the furthermost corner and — Tony’s insides felt suddenly loose and watery — his mother’s jewellery occupied the shelf closest to him.

But no key matching the brass of the drawer was found.

Angrily, he dragged himself back to the desk. He threw himself onto the chair with a wail of springs and considered sneaking into the pantry for jelly and biscuits, as had been his modus operandi when adults dully entertained one another — but, as he kicked his legs out to rest on the sturdy piece of furniture, his heel disturbed something metallic, which rang out shrilly.

Stubby, wood-handled, and sharp — a penknife.

Inspiration struck: experiencing a surge of savage pleasure, Tony picked it up: now he would know all the things his father had never thought it worth telling him, whether Howard wanted to, or not. Glancing about shiftily, Tony struck it in the thin gab and twisted—

It popped open with a crack of splintering wood … and revealed an empty, musky-smelling drawer. Tony slumped back in frustration. Excitement had been futile … unless …

Tony’s stomach swooped.

He picked himself up again, trailing a finger along the back of the drawer, seeking for an uneven edge. When his fingertips graced it, he tugged — and a dark square of thin wood, exactly the size of the bottom, came loose, revealing three sheets of paper: Tony bent down and rifled through them.

He recognized one as a kind of coded sheet, another as belonging to a Polish patent license. The third was crumbled and in Howard’s own writing; he smoothed it out.

> _reggrettably_
> 
> _I reggret_
> 
> _he regrets_
> 
> _I regret_

Tony’s heartbeat was racing, as if he had been sprinting. He sat quite still, though, holding the unexpected paper in his clenched hands while inside of him a kind of silent eruption sent confusion and disappointment in consecutive waves through his body. Slumping deeper into the tufted chair, he reread the words scrawled across it, apparently, at random:

The first two lines had been misspelled and later revised, as though the correct appearance had been tested for something important, something official. But why, then, had such an unnecessary paper been stashed away into such safe place? Had Howard been interrupted writing something he did not want others to see? What did he regret? Could this have been a reconciliation never sent? Once the thought entered Tony’s head, it stuck to it as though glued, and each line written by a once warm hand begun to read like a whisper from a voice beyond the grave.

Had the letter this sketch was for ever been sent … or perhaps that, too, would be found in a dark corner somewhere, collecting dust … it unlikely was about work; there Howard had no regrets … _Your father — he trusts you to be a better man_ … there was something funny there…

Howard wanted Tony to run the company … Tony, not Obie. What had changed by the making of the will? There was something unsettling there, and Tony could not shake the feeling he was missing something vital…

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update, next Friday!
> 
> Inspector Rogers returns ... 😉 😉


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BEHIND THE SCENES
> 
> Bucky:go and apologize  
> Steve: *mumbling* I don't wike it  
> Bucky: get your ass off that chair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N]  
> [1] I did promise Friday, right? Split the chapter, though, 'cause it would have been 8K+ but you're getting the rest next week, same day, while I finish polishing ch. 6 into something presentable
> 
> [2] I loved writing Rhodey for the first time, but he had to go or there would be no story to tell: he is canonly about 99% of Tony's self-control, after all, and that's why I wrote him acting like the White Guy in every horror movie ever. Sorry.
> 
> [3] I'm having way too much fun with describing Tony having arguments from elevated places. It's a pattern. I blame Favreau and RDJ afkdkksidkf
> 
> [4] Dummy is here!! AhH, tHe SeRoToNiN !!1

“Pass me the stool.”

“No.”

Pepper, folding her arms pitilessly, looked formidable in the shoulder-padded Schiaparelli. They had only just reached the end of the left wing and enough art leaned under a sheet against the red damask wall to trip someone entering the corridor.

“I am not partaking in _any_ of your … your…”

“Attempt at reaching behind the top edge that’s been most unadvisedly tipped out from the wall?” suggested Tony. “I should have a stool.”

“And I said, no.”

Tony levelled her an impressively flat look of exasperation.

“This,” he explained with the patience of the truly suffering, “is me taking charge of my life. Turning a new page, and so forth, and so forth. Starting with going through the stuff. I considered selling the place — would have — if it wasn’t for moving—” He hesitated. “Mum wanted to be here. Close to her roots, to dad’s great displeasure.”

There was a silence after that. One, apparently, only awkward to Tony.

“New York calls,” he soldiered on as he toed forward the stool, which kept snagging on the carpet. “The lighter the cargo, the cheaper the bill — hey!” He paused mid-step. “Here’s an idea! You can have this.”

“No, no, no, you’re not going to touch the Gainsborough without proper—”

Tony, now on the stool, tugged it off the wall. It was heavier than it looked. His arms strained and below his rolled-up sleeves he saw a muscle bulge.

“Now, don’t worry, I’ve got a team of guys coming in tomorrow to wrap them up—”

Pepper, voice gaining a steadily shriller edge, said, “I’m not worrying—”

Tony, though, was following his own train of thought.

“Typical of the old man, really,” he said from behind the frame, which, true to Jarvis’ aborted pursuit, was dust-free. “Under several pounds of stone and he’s still managing to lecture me about idleness. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s dissembling this house himself to make me work for it.”

Pepper’s smile, once Tony had set down the art and had an undisturbed view of her freckled face, was a little too understanding.

“It’s made of bricks and mortar,” she said gently. “How could it be alive?”

A muscle by Tony’s nose twitched involuntarily.

“Did you know I was born prematurely?” he rallied on. “Personally, I think that set the tone for the rest of my life, thrust into new situations unprepared.”

“Really? That must have left you out of several, significant stages of development,” said Pepper wryly, “which would explain how _exactly_ you thought that you, with your reckless, high-flying lifestyle, were suited to take on the responsibility of a dependent.”

At this, she glared at the dog; a big, scraggly-looking thing, laid in the middle of the corridor at the best advantage point. It looked up from under its brow so that the whites of its eyes showed when it sensed two pairs of eyes on it.

Tony had his answer ready.

“She’s good security,” he said.

“No, this is your impulsiveness gone round the bend—”

Tony took no notice.

“Moving on,” he said pointedly. “Ah, now _this_ is art!”

He rose up again, this time to remove the velvet curtains hiding a patinated frame, and eyed avidly the rather racy picture of a naked man revealed beneath.

It was a true testament to Pepper’s exposure to Tony’s trips to the casinos of Monte Carlo and to the mountain hotels of Switzerland, that her steps merely faltered at the sight of the art.

“I can’t believe this,” he heard her sigh in a weak sort of moan. “You should, for a start, be _sober_ for this—”

“No need to raise your voice,” said Tony who did not bother to correct her false assumption of his hyper, sleep-deprived state. “I not only hear you, I can see both of you.”

As he worked on the knot behind the frame, he heard Pepper’s leather galoshes clicking closer.

“Tony, no,” she protested, causing him to twirl swiftly around. He pointed at her from atop the stool.

“The old man said to divide it as I wanted!”

“Normal people don’t need to buy affection!”

Tony gestured at his chest heatedly. “This _is_ affection—!”

The dog jumped up; for a second Tony thought it had been bothered by their raised voices, but then it barked once, which was the only warning they got before headlights danced across the passage walls from the driveway below the windows.

“Who’s that?” asked Tony from the space at large. “Get it, girl!”

The dog streaked away: nails scratched on polished parquet, her barks bounced off the walls and windows, and soon she had disappeared around the corner.

More leisurely in his approach, Tony skipped down the staircase, adjusting his suspenders, and was just about to contemplate on putting on something more appropriate than his shirtsleeves, when he rounded the corner — and found her licking the hands of Inspector Rogers, who was bent over her wiggling form, with his hat removed at entry. His hair had fallen down his forehead; pieces of it were standing up from static.

“Well, blow me,” said Tony. “You get about.”

Inspector Rogers’ head shot up. As he righted himself, his shoulders swayed as though he had taken a bracing inhale in the face of Tony’s free-spoken approach.

“Afternoon, Mr. Stark,” he greeted cordially.

“You’re fired,” Tony said.

The dog looked up at him obliquely as if disagreeing with her state of employment.

“Get away from him, Dummy.”

“Excuse me?” said Rogers.

“Not you, bobby. The four-legged one.”

Visibly bewildered, Steve stepped into the house past Tony’s inviting gestures. Dummy jogged alongside them, ribcage swaying from side to side.

“Why the constipated expression?” asked Tony over his shoulder, walking ahead of Rogers along the hall. “Scared of a little banter?”

A housemaid with a dustpan and a brush breezed past him, and behind him, quite distinctly, he heard a muttered, “Scared isn’t the word I’d use.”

They walked past the drawing room door, still sealed shut but not undisturbed — though Tony was not going to divulge this fact. He showed Steve through the dining room and sat him down on a seat in the smoking room. It was the smallest room downstairs and Tony, suddenly conscious of the intimacy of the setting, started to regret not having this talk out in the hall for all to hear.

“Tea?” he offered. “No? Ah, I see. This is personal.”

He threw himself into a divan, arranging an embroidered cushion behind his back. He noticed, with no little degree of amusement, that Rogers was careful not to let his eyes stray to Tony, as though he were witnessing something indecent.

“I’ll throw you a bone,” Tony went on. “You’ve just found out I’m innocent and now you’re trying to get the ball rolling without losing your face. Let’s hear it.”

Steve, at last, tore his eyes off the fireplace.

“Actually,” he said slowly, “I came here to give you the go ahead to clean the drawing room. We’ve cleared as much as we can from the scene.”

“A call would have done the job,” said Tony.

Rogers looked contrived.

“I — I also came to apologize.”

Tony searched Rogers’ eyes; he seemed genuinely regretful, but not regretful enough for the specific words of, _I am sorry._ Somehow, this show of pride served as a point in his favour, instead of a point of irritation to Tony. It was, perhaps, the fact that despite all his poise, he had a fault.

Tony put forward his hand. “Truce?”

Rogers took it.

“Truce,” he said, steadily.

Dummy changed position, then; she rose, walked three steps and laid back down with a thump, her head resting on one outstretched paw.

“How … how did he die?” Tony asked, still looking at Dummy.

“I don’t speculate publicly,” Rogers said.

“And privately?” pressed Tony, looking up.

Rogers simply smiled.

“If it’s of any comfort, the death was quick,” he said, consulting his notes, which he had taken out of a coat pocket. “He was shot here between two and four in the morning. Bullet pierced liver and was found during autopsy. Including enough Benzedrine sulphate to knock out a horse — not lethal, but enough to have you climbing up walls for a long, long time.”

Tony, who felt no surprise at this news, stayed mum.

“Family doctor in London confirmed it was to treat depression, though evidence suggest it was likelier used for boosting productivity. They do not, however, alter one's personality or distort one's perceptions of reality, they’re, in that sense at least, morally acceptable. Gimmicks of a high-speed, high-energy way of society.”

He turned a page.

“It, amazingly, seems that a lost vase was the only thing amiss in the room. No prints, other than a shoe mark on the lawn below the open window — which, oddly enough, did not match Mr. Stone’s shoes. Moreover, Jarvis had lit a fire before closing the room, which delayed—”

“…rigor and cadaveric stiffening,” Tony finished for him.

Rogers looked up in surprise.

“I didn’t know you had an interest in medical science,” he said, snapping his book shut.

“I don’t. It’s a miracle how leisure and compelling circumstances chances one’s habits. And speaking of leisure,” he said, shooting Steve a calculated look. “Done testing whether my guns match the grooves of the bullet? Fool’s work, really. I would have had the right one discarded.”

“Yeah?” said Rogers, and there was no trace of outrage, deserved or otherwise, on his face now. “I’m sure you could have dissembled it to scrap faster than the Constables sent to retrieve the weapons could park.”

“You haven’t brought them with you, have you?” Tony inquired, perking up. “My new security detail’s proven to be corrupt.”

Dummy let out a huff.

“Afraid not,” said Rogers simply. “It’s evidence. Those have so far been conclusive to the point of fabrication.”

“How did you work that out,” said Tony drily.

Rogers set his jaw; he seemed to be in no mood to get drawn into one of Tony’s baiting exchanges.

“What I meant to say is, although this case is so cut and dried its manufactured aspects have defeated their own ends, an inquest is inevitable. It’s fixed for tomorrow at noon — you are familiar with the village hall? No doubt they’ll bring it in Wilful Murder by person or persons unknown, given the evidence, or lack thereof, but—” Rogers paused, seeming to choose his next words very carefully. “They’ll want to hear you. And I wish that did not make me fearful of you making my job that much harder.”

Tony sniffed. “I can be charming, you know.”

“Must be a scary thing to behold.”

“When I need it to be,” Tony said absently, and then he processed Rogers’ tone and realized he had, impossibly, proven to be in possession of a sense of humour.

There was a brush of fabric as Rogers dug through his tan overcoat.

“In case it’s of any help, this,” he said, bringing forth a silvery key, “was found in Tiberius’ pocket.”

It was an ordinary, Yale type key but—

“That’s mine!” said Tony stupidly, startled into ineloquence. “It’s … it’s to the backdoor.”

Roger’s brows crept up. “How did he come by it?”

“Could you please not judge me for five seconds?” Tony massaged at his eyes, pressing on them until he saw spots, and went on bitingly, “How do you _think_ he got it?”

Rogers’s answering blush was blurred due to Tony’s watering eyes; he blinked, trying to get them to focus.

“Can I test it?” Rogers asked, the key held aloft.

Tony, indolently, waved him off. Dummy, stretching languidly, trotted off with Rogers, having apparently cottoned on to the concept of outdoors. As both pairs of steps retreated, echoing down the hall, Tony lingered by the ajar door, knowing Rogers would have to cross through the servants’ quarters on his way to the back.

So, he snuck through the hall, and into the drawing room, studiously not looking at the dark spill on the floor.

Here, he leaned over a spindle-legged side table and slapped the needle of a gramophone down, letting the swell of the music fill the room, his erratic brain, his scattered thoughts…

He tried to recall what he had seen on the night of the murder. It was all in rapid flashes … there had been the noise, and the window … he concentrated hard, frowning, trying to remember…

The dim memory of the dark room came to him … there had been embers in the heart … big shutters, wide open … and the banging window … unlatched. Tony felt as though ice had flooded his chest at the thought…

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what the latch had looked like, but it was impossible … all Tony knew was that at the moment he had been close enough to see, and he had caught what else was in the room with him, all questions of _why_ and _how_ had fled his brain … or had that been the scotch?

And why was the entry forced if there was a key? For that was definitely his; Tony had given it to Ty several years previously. It was all becoming tangled; Tony braced fingers against his temples, blocking out the current sunlit state of the room, trying to hold onto the moonlit window frame, but it was like trying to bottle smoke; the details were dispersing and thinning as fast as he tried to gather them … Tiberius had been shot from close range, and fallen backwards … away from the window … _away_ from the rest of the room…

Tony lifted his head from his palm, opened his eyes and stared at the drawing room as though expecting to find the footprints of the shooter in either of the corners by the credenza that held the tray Obie had emptied…

The music cut off. Tony looked up to see Rogers with a finger on the needle of the gramophone.

“For gentry you move quicker than I thought.”

“I thought seeing it would help,” said Tony, making valiant efforts not to sound argumentative. “I was not _that_ wasted.”

Rogers stared: he seemed unable to know what to make of Tony.

“Does that really help you focus?” he asked, looking doubtful. Tony had a sudden suspicion he may have been there, watching him, for a while.

“That’s debatable,” Tony said in a conversational sort of voice. “Did the key fit?”

“Yes.”

“I thought — I _clearly_ remember him handing it over years ago.”

Rogers absorbed this. “He must have made a copy.”

Tony had known, but to hear it was another matter, and the confirmation sent a ripple of wariness through him. In the stifling, still warmth of the late afternoon, he shivered.

Rogers moved to the piano and sat, arranging himself on the squat stool. His pose was nervous. The fingers of one hand slid in and out of being entwined with those of his left. The sunlight lay on his hair and face like islands of molten gold, reflected off the regency-style mirror by the credenza. He gazed at Tony.

“Have you slept well?” he asked. “In a house that’s been broken into … it’s quite common to feel unsafe.”

“But you don’t think this is your normal breaking and entering gig gone bad, do you?” said Tony, who hated to be this transparent, in a detached voice.

“No,” answered Rogers. “If someone _were_ to tamper with a window, who would have had the means to do it?”

“Any guest that’s been to the house in the past weeks and during the wake have had all the opportunity to put their hands all over the property, no questions asked.”

“Can I have a list?” Rogers asked. “Guests … caters…?”

Tony sighed. “I’ll ask around.”

But Tony’s heart was beating rather fast; he was sure that Rogers was right. Who, out of all with access to the house, could have tampered with the latch? But why, then, had they not _used_ the key? Unless, they hadn’t known it was in Tiberius possession … which begged the question: why _did_ he have it in the first place?

From the piano, Rogers cleared his throat.

“Walk the grounds with me?” he requested.

Assuming this had something to do with the door, Tony followed Rogers gloomily to the backdoor, feeling a strange awareness of his own casual clothing.

He did not think much about the request as they wound their way through the hedges and beds to emerge in a part of the property where the trees grew wilder, denser, less nurtured. Even if he had, he would have not come up with the answer. It was so unlikely that it simply didn’t occur to him — until he saw it with his own eyes: there on the muddy, leaf-strewn ground was a line of round impressions.

Deep at one end, shallow and crumbled at the other …. and the rainy morning had eased their job and had gathered the water where the ground was packed densest: at the crescent shape skimming the edges.

They were, unquestionably, hoofprints.

“Right, so,” said Tony, “death came on horseback.”

Rogers’ eyes were already following the trail backwards, calm-eyed. “Where does the path end?”

Tony felt as though a brick had slid down through his chest into his guts. He remembered: the purchase of the house had come with stables, each holding several stalls. They had, in turn, been sold off to their nearest neighbour, along with the small cut of property they stood on, and their new address was…

“Hammer Hall,” answered Tony: its windows could be seen above the mausoleum, above the treetops, from the study. He shot Steve a sharp look. “Will you pay them a visit?”

Rogers glanced at him from his perusing of the trail, apparently alarmed at this new delighted air that had crept into Tony’s voice.

“It would do more harm than good tonight,” he said cryptically and with delay.

Tony forced down his frustration, reminded himself that Rogers was in possession of a coveted title at such a young age, and that therefore his, _No_ , had a reason behind it other than being discordant.

“When you do — can I watch?”

“No,” Rogers said reasonably. “Have you made a Will?”

“No. Should I?”

Offering no advice, Rogers went on with, “You haven’t received threats, have you?”

Tony felt his mouth stretch into a none too authentic smile that stretched his cheeks and fell far too quickly.

“They seem to trickle in like postcards,” he said. “Lastly for bribery.”

“I shouldn’t have,” said Rogers quickly.

“It’s spot-on,” said Tony, who felt Rogers had overstayed his welcome; he made a meal out of watching Dummy chase the gardener and his hosepipe in the distance.

In the corner of his vision, one worn shoe turned ninety degrees, a pivot that proclaimed Roger’s departure. _Leave_ , Tony urged that foot.

“Stark?”

Tony hummed.

“There’s going to be a storm tonight. I suggest weathering it out at home.”

Tony knew he did not only mean the clouds gathering in the horizon.

“What are you trying to get me out of the way for?” he asked sharply, turning to look at Rogers again. “You got plans?”

Rogers’ expression revealed he had just realized he may have talked himself into a bag.

“So, I’m right?” Tony pressed, pushing away from the trunk, and to his surprise he was prevented from moving by Rogers’ hand clasping his arm. He looked down at it. He thought for a wild second that it was the first time he had been touched by Rogers, although they must have come to contact before — _mustn’t they?_

“Do I need to make that an order?” said Rogers in a tone Tony would not use even on Dummy.

The feeling of being caged intensified. Tony half wished he had listened to Obie … if this was how life was going to be for him in England from now on, maybe he would be better off in New York after all.

“Are you threatening me?” Tony asked, firing up at once. “I hate threats.”

“How should I present it, then? Need me to dress it up as a request—”

 _“Yes,”_ said Tony.

“… with stipulations?” Steve finished, undeterred. “Of course, you’d hate that, too. You don’t like anything unpleasant, do you?”

Tony was about to answer, but they were interrupted — Jarvis was hovering patiently nearby.

“Shall I start serving dinner, sir?” he asked.

“I’ll leave you to eat,” said Rogers, looking rather relieved as he started to walk towards the driveway. Tony remained standing in the shadow of the trees, gaze fixed on the back of a retreating blond head that was infuriatingly not to blame for this.

“Is it actually the time?” he asked Jarvis, who had remained obediently still in waiting. “Or did you come save me?”

“It is, sir, though I am at your service,” replied Jarvis indulgently.

Tony tore his gaze away only after Rogers had rounded the westernmost side of the house, out of sight.

“He must be the most high-handed man I’ve ever met,” Tony groused. “Appallingly bossy. He should control himself. He’s victimizing us all.”

“People will stand a great deal from a beautiful man or woman,” remarked Jarvis, who had his hands clasped behind his back.

The observation felt as though it had rubbed salt into a wound Tony had not known existed; however, Tony rallied quickly.

“A little young for you, don’t you think?” he said.

“Quite, sir. What was I thinking?”

A scullery maid opened a window, letting steam from the kitchen billow out, bringing with it the scent of food down the sloping lawn. Something tickled Tony’s memory.

“Hey, Jarvis, wasn’t I invited to a dinner?”

“Indeed, sir,” confirmed Jarvis, “and which you naturally declined.”

Tony did not let this fact trouble him; he waited for the unmistakable sound of an engine coming to life that indicated Roger’s departure, and once he heard it, started a brisk walk to the house, calling behind him, “No need to keep the food warm for me. Daddy’s got a party to crash.”

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark -- Getting Emotionally Attached to Things That Can't Talk Back Since 1910
> 
> See ya next week! xx


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A/N]   
>  Did I watch an entire 20min YouTube vid on how to drive a -38 Ford? Yes, yes I did. Did I actually find it fascinating? I will neither confirm nor deny that fact.

The shadows were already long with sunset by the time Tony walked through the large front doors of Hammer Hall.

The manor was slightly smaller than Tony’s, though whatever it lacked in space, it made up with the furnishing. Whereas Starks sought to advertise their keeping up with the times, the Hammer clan strived to emphasize the opposite. The royal colours of gold and red were everywhere, draping the Chippendale furniture, the walls, the windows. It all almost seemed _ancestral_ , had it not been for the fact that their ownership was barely older than Justin Hammer himself.

Heads turned as those lingering near the entry froze, absurdly, in mid-conversation. Indifferent and impervious, Tony plucked a martini from a waiter — likewise, rooted on the spot, tray starting to droop down — and picked his way in.

As he strode through the tight passage between the stairs and the open doors, he was unable to help hearing a scrap of conversation happening behind the only closed door of the corridor. It was Mr. Stone’s angry, winded voice that said, “Then you won’t tell them?”

To which a vaguely familiar voice replied: “Will, it’s got nothing to do with that matter.”

“Then tell _me.”_

“I tell you it’s not what you imagine. It does not concern you or your son in the slightest.”

Tony’s step faltered with a sudden, high-pitched squeak of rubber sole against lacquer. The men inside the room quieted. Soon, their footsteps neared the door, and it opened before Tony, revealing two men in shawl-collared tuxedos. At the sight of Tony, Stone’s square face closed off and became as hard as his namesake. The other man’s puffy face twisted into an unquestionable sneer.

“Well,” said Stern, “well, well, well. Now _there’s_ a wasp at an outdoor feast. Buzzing loudly and irritating everybody.”

“That’s hysterical,” Tony said. “I don’t have a stinger.”

“Your untamed tongue is sharp enough,” gritted Stern, lips almost motionless.

He cut off Tony’s access into the sitting room.

“I _was_ invited,” Tony lied, addressing the collar faced in wide grosgrain silk. He knew his story would collapse with the slightest investigation, but on the other hand, he only had until Hammers recalled his rejection before the game was up in any case. “I’m a good friend of Justin’s.”

“Well, well,” said Stern, and Tony could hear a note of trepidation, and knew Stern was wondering whether he had indeed verbally assaulted a friend of the host. Tony’s palm was sweating under the cool glass of the martini; he would not have been surprised to know Stern, as a politician, could smell fraud. But, at last, he let Tony in, grudgingly.

As soon as his shoe was above the threshold, Tony felt the atmosphere in the over-furnished room change subtly. Nest disrupted, thought Tony with satisfaction, preparing to observe the insects scatter.

Then, a hand clamped on his shoulder, remarkably high up the junction of his neck and shoulder, and an oppressive breath misted his ear.

“One more thing,” hissed Stern’s voice. “It’s an awkward position you’ve driven us in. One has to treat you as usual out of loyalty to your father, of course, but hang it all, one’s gorge does rise at treating something to eat to a murderer.”

“Jury’s out,” reminded Tony, eyes unseeingly locked on the guests.

“Yes, yes, it is,” said Stern, now with palpable silkiness in his tone. “I have my fingers crossed for Wilful Murder, and if the Coroner’s country jury does not wish to take that responsibility, I will personally see to taking the matter higher.”

Tony stared ahead, listening to the murmur of laughter, to the swish of skirts, sharp clicks of buckled heels. Were they not grieving? Had the loss of Ty been simply an inconvenience that had put a week’s stop to socializing? Was he imagining that even Mr. Stone, who had since disappeared, had looked dry-eyed and light-hearted?

He held his martini higher. Nobody ran out at them, no ejections were given, until—

“Hey, hey, hey.” It was Justin Hammer, who had just risen from an empire style settee. “What’s with the gatekeeping? Come on, Anthony, step in, step in. Grab another drink. The more the merrier, am I right?”

“It’s a pleasure,” said Tony.

He did pretty well in getting the words out, all things considered. Behind him, Stern’s red face was bordering on purple. Hammer, with real pleasure, tugged Tony, whose drink sloshed, into the room.

“Sorry for the killjoy, buddy. Guys like him just can’t handle men like you and me, you know? If you got it, flaunt it, that’s what I say.”

“I got held up giving the police a helping hand,” said Tony, braving a sip of his drink, but got an elbow to his side; liquid dripped onto his fingers, which he sucked on impatiently.

 _“Oh_ , you dirty dog,” said Hammer, who had read from Tony’s troubles a suggestive gesture that wasn’t there. “Which one?”

“A lady has her secrets,” Tony murmured; Stern was watching them beadily.

“Well, let me show you mine. I think you’ll like this, Anthony … oh, their faces when they saw it. My Sistine chapel, my Mona Lisa. Here, see? Take a good look!” he said, neck bent far to observe the fresco above. His glassed winked in the chandelier’s light when he turned to Tony expectantly. “What do you think?”

“Magnificent,” said Tony, sparing the ceiling a glance before peering at the guests. Now, Hammer was obviously in high good humour. His desire to invite Tony had been, Tony suspected, a mere whim. He may have been highly amused, as a child might be amused, by doing something unapproved. But no, the undercurrents that Tony sensed were nothing to do with Justin Hammer. In what direction did they lie, then?

“When did you have it commissioned?” he asked, buying time.

“We had the artist smuggled in from Florence. They’re not known just for the lilies. Lovely, isn’t it?” Hammer said, delighted, apparently, at the sight of Tony gazing around, transfixed. “But I can tell you’re not here for the blow by blow. See the _pentimenti?_ The _a secco?_ The boys of cloth called it the sanctuary of theology. If it were any more life-like, the angels would pluck theirs harps and sing to you. A tune that would make Mozart sound like a toddler with a fiddle.”

Tony was barely listening. Where was Obie? He did not seem to be at the back of the room near the edibles … he was nowhere near the hall he had walked through … he wasn’t part of any of the groups lingering by the French windows, occasionally discussing in detail the garden outside…

“— and they’d sing it to you _in_ _Latin_.” Hammer’s voice changed. “Are you listening? You seem a little distracted. I feel like I’m talking to a wall.”

Tony was, in fact, not paying attention, for he had seen across the room a lone woman lingering by the windows. In a red, belted dress with a cape collar, held together by a brooch so large it must have been a calculated risk, she appeared to be looking outside, but then — Tony’s stomach swooped — their eyes met on the reflection upon the dark panels.

“Yeah, you know what? I’m just gonna … go to the snacks, work off some hunger,” Tony explained, already drifting away, and for a moment, he thought he saw a shadow pass over Hammer’s face, saw that foolish smile falter.

“Yeah … all right,” stammered Hammer, gesturing vaguely about, “treat yourself with something from the spread.”

Tony was already walking away when Hammer recovered enough to shout: “Though from what I’ve gathered, you’ve enjoyed enough!”

By then, the woman in red had been joined by Stern, who, with a rather enormous leap of liberty, brushed a hand across her back. She did not flinch; she had observed him, too, from the reflective surface of the French windows.

It was all very well done, thought Tony, the tilt of her head, the careful demureness, none of it overdone. He, Tony, had had too much experience of playing nice with the crème de la crème not to recognize a master at work. He could tell that she wanted to slip into the anthill very, very much; perhaps even more so than Tony himself.

“And why did he have to bring that wretched Babushka?” whispered loudly a woman reclined in a velvet cocktail chair as he passed the group. “What was she called again? Molotov?

“Romanoff,” answered her friend.

Tony walked on, eyes on the red woman — Romanoff? — all the while feeling those of others’ boring into his back. He couldn’t relax, even when he was out of earshot: he was certain betrayal would come; he was only unsure from where.

Ten feet from the woman, the crowd became dense, and contact became unavoidable. This invited closer conflict than Tony had wished.

“Looking for company for your dreary colonial evening, Anthony?” a voice leered. “Sadly, we all recall that the last piece of entertainment never made it back.”

This brought a momentary stiffness in its train. His friend, well into his drink and eyeing Tony beadily, broke the rather awkward silence by saying with slight effort, “Just as I told the police, never trust a foreigner! A matter of time before he went off his rocket, innit?”

“I shall keep an eye on you,” the third chuckled, brandishing a pink fist in a parody of boxing. “No sudden movements, I’ve got a mean right hook.”

“You don’t say,” said Tony, flat incredulity in his voice, and he sidestepped the men impatiently.

But the woman was gone. Faces continued to follow him, and he followed them back, unblinking, scanning for a guilty, shifty gaze … a sudden departure before he reached the next group … something … _anything_ …

The lights cut out with a stuttering flicker.

A sharp ripple of murmurs spread from under the unlit chandeliers to the dimly illuminating windows. Many silhouettes could be seen turning towards the ceiling. Then a glass shattered. Somebody screamed.

Tony threw himself into the panicked crowd. People were shouting for torches and candles; many ran out the door to find them; in the darkness it was hard to tell a man from another.

“The fuse box!” cried the voice of Hammer Sr. “Check the fuse box in the cellar. _Goddamn_ British wiring…!”

As Tony pushed his way out of the room, he saw a door across the hall close after a tall man.

Tony peered into the room, his heart pumping ever faster. Two shadows moved … of two men, whose stretched-out figures gestured agitatedly on the library floor.

Somewhere outside, thunder rumbled. The next flash of lightning, closer and reverberating, lit several rows of dark-spined books. The two outlines flickered and came back. Tony edged between shelves, listening. Who were they? What did they need to hide? Had some unknown force drawn Tony to this moment, or had the meeting been arranged after his arrival, precisely because he was there? In which case, did they know who killed Ty? Again, he strained his ears, trying to put meaning into broken words, to cut syllables, but he could not hear anything there. All the same, luck was on the men’s side in the form of thunder: now as a rising noise, earlier as a black out.

 _If_ it was by chance. He had suspected this. If it were easy, the killer would have left a card on the rug for them to pick up, instead of a body. He set off around the cover of his shelf, trying to catch a sight.

_“No! Don’t!”_

The shout cracked like the following thunder itself: a flash of lightning, a rumble, and during the following silence Tony found a torch by his shoulder. As he picked it up, he thought he heard a door closing, though they couldn’t have moved around him so silently, so swiftly…

And in the instant that he clicked the torch on, his eyes raking the closed door behind him, he saw the outline of white-and-brown brogues at the end of the shelf; surprise made him turn and panic paralyzed him as he saw the ankles and trousers stretching horizontally behind the corner.

The flashlight fell from his numb fingers as he hastened to point the beam; it spun to the floor, its light dancing dizzyingly around the room as it clattered about and was extinguished; then the library door opened behind him: a pool of light fell on the floor … onto the unconscious body of Justin Hammer.

Tony could not look away. From the door, he heard Obie’s voice call, “Tony?”

Tony could not get his body to form a reply: then a heavy set of footsteps joined Obie.

A man spoke, and the sound of the voice wound Tony’s fear to an even higher pitch.

“What is this? What’s the meaning of this?”

Tony swayed where he stood; the dark, old books-scented room seemed to close around him; he did not know what to do.

Mr. Stone walked slowly around Obie to come to a stop next to Tony, looking down at Hammer’s unconscious form. Obie’s voice seemed to echo as if coming through a significant distance — instead of merely ten feet.

“I just came in … found him like this … it all seems a little _too_ convenient, doesn’t it?”

“Let’s leave the speculation to a time when we’re better informed,” said Stone, whose glasses glittered in the light trickling in from the hall; the electricity was back.

“Hey!” came a shout from behind the door. “This room was locked, you’d better not—!”

A figure came bustling through it, and took several steps back, stunned by what he had found. They cried out, and ran off—

And soon they came back, a heavily breathing man in tow, who let out a hoarse wail at the sight of Hammer spread out on the floor, stumbling unsteady steps further into the room.

At his son’s side, Hammer Sr.’s legs buckled as though he was about to kneel, but then stilled, as his eyes had only now zeroed in on Tony, frozen by the shelves.

 _“You!”_ bellowed Hammer Sr. and clambered up; Tony was abruptly lifted by his lapels and pushed against the shelf. Books toppled to the ground. Tony heard seams ripping as his clothes slid higher up his body and took the brunt of his weight.

“You will _not_ take another son from us!” shouted Hammer Sr.

Someone tugged at Hammer Sr.’s elbow, but the livid old man did not back down: face red from both strain and anger, even his carefully arranged toupee had become crooked as his meaty fist curled tighter and tighter.

Trashing, suffocating, Tony clawed at the arm at his throat; it was pressing his bowtie into his windpipe, a ball of silky fabric that did not feel so soft anymore, inches from crushing his airway, and his brain was flooding with white-hot light, all perception waning: his erratic heartbeat drowned, distant shouting, everything fading…

The next thing Tony felt was considerable pain on his cheek. Hammer Sr. had released him — the result was that his body had crumbled down, and when met with no resistance, by the feeling in his cheek, hit the floor headlong. He scampered up, holding his fevered-feeling throat; the musty air of the room felt cold flooding in his lungs again — and the uproar was loud and clear at last—

“… the last one hasn’t even been released for burial from the post-mortem!”

“The inquest—”

“Hang the inquest! It’s my turn to bury a son now — m-my poor boy—!”

Tony blinked — Obie and Hammer Sr. were poised chest to chest — the others, Stone and his partners, knelt by the body, which, as Tony now saw, was heavily bruised at the head, a rivulet of half-dried blood trickling down a temple. The glasses, that had minutes ago glinted in light, laid crooked and cracked at the end of a broken nose.

Stone, who had allowed this argument to develop, now with a slight gesture indicated that it should cease. All pairs of eyes fell on him; a long, impenetrable silence fell as they observed him feel Hammer’s neck.

“He’s breathing,” said Stone, very softly, withdrawing his hand. “He’s not gone, Jim.”

There was a series of relieved exclamations at the news and Tony allowed his panic to recede. He straightened a little higher. The old Hammer in front of him strode over to his son, carded his knobby fingers through the bloodied hair, and spoke, “Is the doctor on the way?”

“Lorrimer rang for him five minutes ago,” said a new voice from the door. “The police are on the way.”

“Good,” said Hammer Sr. with finality; he seemed as reluctant to catch Tony’s eyes as Tony was to catch his.

“Out of the way, Obadiah,” said a curt voice.

It was Stern. He and several others were closing in on Tony, who tried to pull his tuxedo closed as he faced them. Stern’s face was taut with glee.

“Let’s lock him up — just to be sure,” he said, his eyes gleaming with savage triumph. There was an indecent excitement in his voice, the same callous pleasure Tony had heard as he reminded Tony of the inquiry. “The pantry will do.”

And there were hands reaching towards him: Obie took Tony gently by the armpit; the others were not so courteous: he was pushed and tugged, yanked and hauled by so many arms he could not tell which belonged to whom, nor a word of what was whispered, wondered, by the bystanders at both sides of the rooms he was half-carried through —and, at last, was released at the door of a pantry, only to be violently shoved, with a parting, “Get in, vermin.”

The man closest to him crouched down to Tony’s eyelevel. Tony, through the blurry gap of his undone curls, saw a face covered in receding grey hair and sparse-haired, pale brows on either side of a severe frown line. Stern smelled as he had done at the corridor: of martinis, strong cologne and sweat.

“When you get out, you little shit, it’ll be to the arms of the Constables.

Tony, even thought there was nothing hilarious about the situation, snickered. For a while it seemed to be the only sound in the room; he could not hear movement upstairs, though he imagined several parties involved had stayed behind, walking room to room to tell them what had happened, what they believed had happened, what they _trusted_ to have happened…

The door banged shut on Tony’s face, leaving him to glower at the world beyond it through the eyelets of its mesh screen. A lock clicked, the door was rattled experimentally, and then footsteps retreated. A door opened and closed, and Tony was left behind to massage his sore throat.

The passage outside looked exactly as a respectable manor’s quarters of not usually seen by guests would be expected to look. It was plain, worn and practical. All the staff were out. As far as Tony could see there wasn’t a living soul in sight, not even a rat.

And yet … and yet … Tony walked restlessly to the sacks of flour and sat down on them, running a hand across his throat again. It wasn’t the isolation that bothered him; Tony was no stranger to solitude. He had been the only American in a boarding school once and been advanced beyond his age. That very same overshadowing had both gained and lost him several relationships along the years. He was used to exploitation and tricks; they were the unavoidable bedfellows of wealth and envy.

No, the thing that was bothering Tony was that the last time he had been dealt like this, he had known who was behind it … but he was none the wiser, now … the idea that somebody he had looked into the eyes tonight had secretly been plotting another murder to frame Tony for, was alarming, unsettling…

Tony listened closely to the silence around him. Was he half expecting to hear the creak of a window, or the drag of a body on tiled floor? And then he jumped slightly as the door to the cellar opened.

Tony gave himself a mental shove; he was being stupid; there was nothing they could pin on him while barred in, and Hammer was probably being seen to by Doctor Banner by now, with full promises of recovery.

“Stark?”

Nothing but the shock of hearing that voice could have had Tony springing to the screen-windowed door. Heartbeat erratic, he gripped the framework. There on the other side stood Inspector Rogers, plainly dressed but soaking wet; the shoulders of his overcoat had turned a muddy brown. His hair looked mussed as if it had been recently tugged at.

“Are — you — _nuts?”_ Rogers gritted, though his relieved shift of weight from one leg to another was at odds with his berating tone. “What in the God’s name are you doing in here?”

“Oh,” said Tony, waiving a dismissive hand in the air, “I could have picked the lock, but you warned me to be on my best behaviour.”

This was not what Rogers had meant.

“Mr. Stark,” said Rogers; the sound of it sent a jolt through Tony, for whom _Mr. Stark_ still partly meant his father.

“Looking like death, huh? You should see the guy upstairs.”

“I bet,” said Rogers and stooped to open the lock, thus hiding himself from Tony’s view, but he could have sworn, even in the dim light, there had been something akin to a smile playing at those lips.

“You know, your life would be a lot easier if you stopped baiting people you dislike,” Rogers’ voice spoke, then, from out of sight.

“Appreciated, and ignored,” said Tony; he was so close to the screen he felt his lashes brush against it as he blinked.

When the door swung open, Rogers let Tony walk out by himself; however, his eyes followed Tony’s every movement. He had no further comments to offer; he had apparently, incredibly, divested himself of scrupulousness.

They climbed upstairs.

Tony saw everything as though it was a very vivid, highly detailed dream. There were dozens of faces staring at him from the sides of the rooms with grim, avenged faces. They were making a great deal of noise, but whether friendly or not, Tony could not listen. He seemed to be sensing all of it as though through a transparent sheet, like a heat haze, which caused the rooms and the people in them swim strangely…

Rogers did not seem himself, either; in fact, he looked nearly as uncomfortable as Tony. His fisted arm guiding Tony by the small of his back was stiff, and he never took his eyes off the door ahead, nor the ones after that…

Twice, Tony thought he felt an icy, calculating pair of eyes on his back, but when he, at last, could chance a look at the front door, his eyes merely caught those of Obie, Mr. Stone. and Stern, standing in a ring, smoking cigars.

Outside, Roger’s car stood in wait; the pressed leather of Tony’s oxfords soaked on a black, invisible puddle while he was busy holding his ruined tuxedo overhead in some parody of umbrella. He couldn’t stop looking at Rogers. He had a hundred questions. Why was he alone? What now? Charges? How bad would his judgement be once the car door slammed shut behind them? Was he angry?

He could ask none them. Instead, Tony tucked himself silently in the backseat, and they took off. Yet, after having driven for barely half a mile, the car slowed to a crawl and stopped. Steve, bent low over the wheel, bit his lip, staring at the dark night encompassing them. His straw-blond locks had fallen over his forehead.

“Get on the front seat,” he said, after a pause.

Mystified, Tony climbed over the solid, square seat, trying not to knee Rogers at the back of his head. Without the divide of the back, it suddenly felt very intimate to share the same seat. At a sharp bend, Tony felt himself slide towards him despite the ridged upholstery.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked hoarsely.

“Home,” Rogers said shortly. Then, when Tony looked at him in flat disbelief: “Too many people want you dead.”

“Everyone to the north of the village, but only half the people inside the house,” said Tony. “Good plan.”

“No less naïve than trusting a stranger and a suspect, whom I have not treated considerately, I guess.”

He held Tony’s gaze as the moment lengthened.

“You know what my ma used to say?” Rogers said quietly.

“What?”

“She used to say, no man’s a hero to his valet. I think I’m starting to learn you just might be.”

“That’s your sole source?” asked Tony.

“The only one I care about.”

Tony turned to look at Rogers and his stomach gave a weird lurch as though he had missed a step going downstairs.

 _“Used_ to?” he asked, cautiously, after a beat.

“Tuberculosis,” Rogers said, in that same quiet voice. “She was a nurse.”

“Ah,” said Tony, who was starting to regret asking; he had nothing to say to this.

A thick silence swelled, save for the intermittent soft whine and groan of the engine; Tony, arm resting on the door, drummed his fingers on it and watched the headlights reflect off the wet dirt. Every time Steve reached over for the gear by Tony’s right knee, their arms brushed.

By the fifth time Tony got his leg bruised by the knobby head of the gear, despite trying to take as little space as he could, he could not bear the silence any longer.

“You know, if my math is right, and it always is, your promptitude to the call was rather suspiciously commendable, even for you.”

“You got that?” said Rogers. “I was tipped off about your arrival.”

“I knew that,” said Tony, satisfied. “The lady in red, right? She’s your informant.”

“Natasha will be cross now that her cover’s blown,” said Rogers, seemingly finding humour in something.

“But … if you wanted to keep me out of it,” said Tony slowly, “who was she spying on?”

“That’s classified,” replied Rogers, who was staring avidly out into the traffic, which was about as sleepy as one would expect from a country lane. “You’re poking your nose into a police business. What’s worse, a business you’re already neck-deep involved with.”

“Uh, isn’t that the perfect reason to divulge me who is it that’s hustling me?”

“So you’ll start solving it by yourself again?” asked Roger shrewdly.

Tony opened his mouth, but Rogers beat him to it.

“There’s enough self-glorified vigilantes about without your input. The men you saw tonight? They’ve organized a neighbourhood watch. There’s hardly a cat that can cross the street without them knowing. They’ve terrorized half the county into sleepless nights. People are afraid that someday the gentry is going to kick down their door, point fingers and they can do nothing ab — _duck!”_

It all happened very quickly; without further warning, there was a hand at the back of Tony’s neck; next, he found himself staring from close range at the chevron tweed of Roger’s trousers, the tips of his curls tickling against the buttons of his waistcoat. He smelled of wet wool.

“Sorry,” said Rogers’s sheepish voice from above him. “There was a car. Is — did I hurt you?”

Tony had forgotten all about his soreness; the lucky placement of the hand only increased the impression of sensuality the unfortunate position gave, and despite himself, Tony felt the first hardening between his legs, under the shifting fabric, as he straightened when the hold was hastily released.

“Why? Does pain flag you down?” asked Tony before he could bite his tongue.

“Try not to strain your throat,” said Rogers, tone unyielding, in form of a rebuttal.

And, that was order restored.

Tony stared out of the window at the inky, blue-black sky. It had been enough of a shock to be strangled; it was even more disconcerting to find out a group of angry old men might murder him in his bed tonight if he wasn’t behind bars. He doubted very much that his being free would stay a secret long in the town. As he well knew, the only thing connecting the first death and the second attempted one was _him_ ; it was highly unlikely therefore that he could return to the house tonight. As for where he could stay instead, Tony had no idea where he could hide himself anonymously. Wherever he was, he was sure they would find him; no one at the dinner party had accumulated their wealth by twiddling thumbs. But where to go, then?

Tony didn’t like the idea of Rhodey knowing that he, Tony Stark, was getting jumpy about a little conflict. Rhodey would fuss worse than Jarvis, and he didn’t want his visit punctuated with anxious inquiries about his bruises.

Tony kneaded his throat with his knuckles; he winced — and, with a shock, found them at the end of the driveway. The undeviating wall of night had failed to convey the changing of scenery.

Apart from the noise of the yielding suspension as they got out of the car, the silence prevailed; this was for the best, really, since Tony was so tired and Rogers so very unexpectedly attentive as he escorted Tony to the door, that God only knew what he may have uttered … _Thanks for saving me,_ for example. Or, _Let’s get out of these wet clothes?_

But then, when Tony opened the door, ready to tiptoe upstairs past Jarvis, Rogers shut the door after him, leaving the two of them standing in the dim entry, alone.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Tony hissed, his throat smarting.

“Staying the night,” said Rogers, setting his wet hat onto the console by the door. “If you don’t mind.”

Well, thought Tony, this wasn’t quite how he had imagined having the man sleep under his roof.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No promises on a new Friday update this time 🙈 🙈 🙈


End file.
